In the horse latitudes

                                           
                                                 
 my painted barque is, and only a recurring
Aaron Copland melody companions me, adrift    
and yet unable to move; and venturing forth    
on the airs of thought--a dark night enters
me--assuages little.  Effortlessly/ so many    
ramble on, word upon word.  Not this hermit.   
                                            
My sense is, though, this quiet, this space
unfathomable to me, may be presaging a turn     
toward--toward what--something my mind has    
not defined yet.                            
                                             
More later, if later comes.                      
                                                
                                                    
                                                    
-
Rho00105