If you ever lose heart and the earth seems as distant as stars fading into the noise of your busy mind, know this. That a tiny island exists in the blue hands of the ocean. That a tree grows upright into the salted clouds. That two eagles love each other enough to spend their lives greeting the morning sun together. That two eaglets stand in their nest, gazing at the heavens. Looking down to the forever ground. They eat and sleep and flap their wings. And one day in July, one by one, they will jump into the air. They will know the difference between existing and what is beyond. They will hold onto nothing. The hurricane will come, courage catching their pinions on fire, as they mount the wind, climbing ladders into realms of the invisible.

--T.L. Stokes

Wednesday, February 24, 2010


I want the poem for Wardie to be sweet,
infused with warm seaweed salt smell
of the north Sound. On the face,
oh how it feels on your face.

With hands of wind
stirring up the water.

With a boat and a motor,
and a fishing pole.
With bait, his pipe.

I want to be a child in the log house,
at the knee, listening to old stories
of ferry captains,
of fishing. Feel family
gather around for a summer meal,
small talk, generous hugs,
days and love that seem

I want the poem for Wardie
to have Rose in his arms.
I'll leave it at that,

just an old proud man
with his sweetheart
in his arms.

for Wardie

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