Making an art of Questions

Poetry, I have been told, causes one to ask questions. In this case, literally. I suppose the goal is to present an image that generates a question without having to ask it for the reader. In this I am an amateur  So, here are some questions for all of you to think about.



A trail of shells

How many strands
Can I leave of myself
Before all the hair falls out?

What of myself from summer,
When the light is blonde
Upon the waves, curling
Like wrinkled pages
Quietly enveloping themselves?

What of the sea shells,
Where the voices live
And echo—echo each other
Until the tide hallows them out?

What of the motion
Below the sands,
The digging crabs
Whose trenches we trace
Through a hole in the ground?

What of the trail we leave
As we run for the water?
Do our footprints
Become nothing
But valleys and mounds?

What of the scalding
When we run from the water?
Do our footprints
Become something
More than valleys and mounds?


I ask

Who could compare
the pain of a good thing
to a great thing
never begun?


I welcome thoughts!


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