As delicate as calligraphy,
as detailed as snow.
My mind is cut with fretwork
and there’s one thing that I know.

Each note I strike is on the mark.
Each song is sung on key.
The only thing that’s wrong with it
is that I’m never free.

One day I’ll get it wrong and then
my life will be off-key
and I will find the secret door
that opens to the sea.

I’ll wander round the wrecks
of time and check in at the bar.
And when my room is ready
I’ll find that’s where you are.

Vicki Woodyard


    1. I like the way this poem came out because we try to find home in our head.
      The hint is to wander into the heart where nothing ever works out as planned.
      The mystery of the m(om)ent. Embracing it is beyond the mind’s ability.


Comments welcomed....