The Poet and the Poem (#270)
November 25, 1987 10:50 pm
Sometimes my senses slip, then slide
Into a strange other world.
A strange other me.
I see what cannot be seen
And feel what is not to be felt
In a solid, stable world.
Emotions shift, colors cry out loud
The wind talks to me, sighing in the trees.
In this strange other world of me.
Then from the knowledge told by the wind
A poem is born
From this strange other me.