[Our grandson, two-year-old Eero, observing a whirling ceiling fan with a light globe, above him in the Picton Harbour Inn Restaurent: “Flying light”—that’s my found poem for this weekend.]
We had seen it
so many places
so many times
ceiling fan
blades whirling
light globe jiggling
unenchanted
we had not
allowed ourselves
to see the
mystical
flying light
be swept away
through the
magic portal
to the stars
[See Platinum River for the background of this poem, and a photo.]
