By Stephen Phillip Johnson
What moves, shore or ship,
when souls sail, blinking,
heartbeat . . . a blip,
yonder fog engaged,
muted by seas
no mortal sails?
We but hold the lamp,
squint- at their departure,
left here to wade-
shallow waters lapping,
tugging, with a sweet tide
we’ve yet to taste.
Stephen Phillip Johnson is a Mountain Home carpenter. Writing is his itch. Within the halls of medicine, where he’s been (repeatedly) healed, reside flocks of muses.