By Luci Shaw


For every memory lost
there will be one
that will not let go.

Like a phone ringing,
you can’t
not answer it.


To write a poem is
to fling a stone,
not sure where
it will land.

The best ones come
when the poet
is taken
by surprise, when

that random pebble
of an image
its true home.


Brief, like mist
on a mirror,
the variable
ghosts on the bay,
dip and lift.

Sailing, to find the breeze,
you steer towards
the far, dark cat’s paw

not sure if
it will still be there
when you are.

Photo by Luci Shaw.

About the Author

Luci Shaw is the author of ten volumes of poetry including What the Light Was Like, Accompanied by Angels, and The Genesis of It All, and the non-fiction prose books The Crime of Living Cautiously and Breath for the Bones: Art, Imagination & Spirit. She is Writer in Residence at Regent College in Vancouver, B.C. For further information, visit her website.

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