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I came to write again
at Birch Island, Sand Lake,
lounging in a canvas chair
on the deck of my newly built cabin —
my refuge from insanity.

I came by boat,
coolers stocked with bottled water,
cans of chili, bread and peanut butter,
Greek yogurt, propane for the stove
and books of poetry.

I’m equipped
with new pen in hand, blank journal
I look out over the lake, through the forest
to be inspired by spirits from the past
and woodland nymphs.

I may not write
a meaningful phrase or thought.
I may just sit and watch the trees,
birds, animals, reptiles
and insects.

 

 

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