Stillness settles into
the tide of October
nothing without cold air

Bring to me your poem
I will birth it into this decade
it will win hearts
Be good to your heart
Be nice to your heart
Be wise with your heart
There is a heron overhead
he can see when he dives
but he does not care
Dough rolling, ink stained hands
One hundred beads
fall to the tile,
let your mind drift
Say goodbye
The first poem you’ve penned in a moon
can now be thrown at the sea.