Hour 6 Poem



I believe in the secret life of things.

Moss has a purpose.

Trees sing.


More, I know in my bones

(smooth, white, hard and supple)

that when I sip my coffee

the cup tastes my lips.


I admit, I try not to wonder what the toilet is thinking.


But the river! What a joy that must be!

To sip the ice off a mountain

then dance all the way down

skipping off rocks

skirling from bend to bend

and finally

spending myself

in the trembling ocean.

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