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per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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I haven't posted any poetry recently, so...
Like water, the words

Sometimes it's stormfall, and I grip
My pen in shivering hands, or cling to it,
Fearful of being washed away by a wave-surge.
Or then (so rare!) it is stream-murmur,
A trickling spring of inspiration
Filled with sparkle of sunlight.
Then come seasons of drought, and
I must labor, chasing rich scents under earth;
Or follow green leaves that trace hidden wells,
Or wait, barely breathing in dawnlight
For the dew-pearl on the opened flower.

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I just listened to this last night. It addresses an experience like the one you explore above:



I will try to get a chance to listen to that at some point. It's been too hectic at work, and I feel disinclined to go online from home most nights.

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