Past the green copper bell-ed,
Thru the the single trees, un-felled.

Do you see that solitary-sentinel chair,
Empty? No, not.
Can you not see the sweep,
The vista, the poems hanging about,
Ripe for the plucking from the quiet,
Nestled in the soil, on the wings of gulls,
Who do not fly, but let the wind keep them
And their cargo, standing-still, in place,
Awaiting my attention, my need.

You read less and less,
The more and more I write.
It's ok, I understand that.
Blessed to have found the spot,
Where the poems make a crowd,
And the giving is good and healing, easy.

A long as there be ten righteous,
The Lord acceded to Abraham's plea,
***** would not be destroyed.
I am less demanding,
For I am just human.

As long as but five,
Acknowledge the caring,
Lick my wounded words like vanilla,
Is that too much to ask?

If but one finger points and marks it
Read, is that not sufficient to let this
Battle be ended, tween ego and truth,
Pride of craft, and, weak craving for attention-no-deficit?

If it be, that only the sea grasses, rooted deep, sway,
On the beach, a few feet from where, the chair spends its days,
Clap their hands silently to
Acknowledging the harvesting of the words,
That too will be noise enough to satisfy
The Lord who tendered them, all this, to me
For safe keeping, and giving me no choice but to write,
If but to honor all words, and their creators,
Each and every one.