ledzeponpep

   The envelope remembers   where and how,   the poem was written.   Maybe not its beginning     or even its ending,   but certainly and always its meaning.   And though   my eroded memory fails,                 … these days…     White pale beacon, it stands   a safe limestone shore between,     the wavy seas and the middle-lands.   Unlocking time and distance   leading back to it, all of my vagabond sails,     weaved mix of erratic words and ancient dreams.   Images flash with an undeniable brilliance   no longer a perishing sun in twilight rain,   but my own soul, whole… again. *K MARCH *Y