It is such a misguided notion to believe there is any other place to be but this one–
the sweet smell of rain (the droplets falling on the very paper on which I was writing this),
surrounded by poetry.
A church bell chimes nearby and machines
all around me.
The cacophony of seagulls crying while a crow flies
over my head.
The bees try to make love
to the dancing white anemones (being coy but filled with longing),
and my heart knows
that there isn’t a care worth the furrow of my brow
or any place to which I must hurry.
There is this moment.