Today, I spent a bit of time re-reading poems written recently by my friend, Tim.

I was surprised to find how deeply the carefully placed words touched me, bringing to bear the power of images conjured from nebulous notions, like vague memories of places I might have been, or longed once to be.

I’ve often marvelled at the way an idea, a thought, a feeling – something so ethereal, even mystical – can prompt such a tangible, carnal response.  It begins with a pause on the inhale, maybe a chill, then an ache in the gut, followed closely by a lump in the throat and water gathering at the corners of reddening eyes.

Though nothing visible, physical, or overt has imposed itself on my being, my being reacts with exaggeration, converting my grown-up, calloused heart of stone into playdough in the hands of a toddler.

Whatever the location of that distant land, from whence comes such affectionate power, I’m confident it’s where I’d like to live.  To wallow in the sand of its shores without the boundaries of all our worldly impositions . . . well, that would be poetry.

I believe the reality of something more – just more, more than meets the eye, a ubiquitous, effervescent more – is what drives all of us to hope and love.  The inherent, fleeting, elusive knowledge of more.  The romance of more.  Less of this and more of that.

The overwhelming drive of the human spirit on its way to somewhere else.  Travel well.

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