authors know

we can skiff the earth almost all the mornings, petting a porpoise who peeps.

we can watch our loved one breathing up and down, and adore her while gently she sleeps.

we can skim the deep awaiting a walrus, or watching something larger arise.

or devour canyons and gorges and deserts all with our camera-like eyes.

some jump from planes to see the world zoom, coming at them like flowers from seed-bed.

others scour the skies where volcanoes self-groom, to watch all the blue sulfur they’ve bleeded.

but while we dine on these majesties and blossoms, if while our senses “hook up”,

we never arrive at a port for these “awesomes”, it’s because that we failed to look up.

for a beauty is something, and a scene is sublime, and a waterfall hideout’s quite the offer.

but failing to thank out the Dreamer of these things is the greatest offense to all authors.

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