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I have tasted the Scottish rain,
been alive and lucky
to feel the cold wind,
feet wet in the spongey grass
of a hillside looking over
the manifest perfection
of stressless seconds
expressed in mountain and fog.

I’ve stood there and breathed
when breath seemed impossible,
but it’s the only acceptable outcome
when presented such beauty,
failed by speech,
fumbling for your wife’s hand
so touch confirms
your existence, not alone,
not dreaming of sheep
standing by the fencerow, chewing.

Everywhere I go,
a coastline of varied erosion
exists in wind shorn teethings,
a new sunset awaits
like an explosion on a timer
tied to a paint store,
and yet people still choose
not to have children

as I navigate the newness
of narrow roads
crowded by dump trucks
on hairpin turns
the opposite of logical,
I’ll remember there must be
places where the sky rests
upon a body of water so still
that sometimes the colors
blend so seamlessly
one can lose their memory
of land, and what it feels like
to stand on solid ground.

Written by

Provocative truth teller, author of 14 poetry collections. Cat dad. Dog dad. Currently working from Portland, Oregon. Learn more at: .

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