For the Man

This is for the man
That sits on the picnic table
Writing so neatly
Exuding such peace

This is for the man
That delicately holds his pen
Perfecting each blackened word
On his lined paper day after day

This is for the man
That lingers for hours
Shifting only slightly
As beach people drag their kayaks and baskets
endlessly beside him


This is for the man
That I imagine is writing his life
his dreams out for his grandchildren
and great grandchildren

This is for the man that picked
this daily writing spot
a sacred place in the sun and shade
for truth to light upon the paper
for hands to set it free
and for memories to fly from mind
to hand

I tried to stop my steps on several days
as I passed you
to ask what you may be writing
to bask in the art of zen-like creativity
and capture for myself the magic in you

I will not say where you write
I hope to come again and see you
This time I will ask to sit with you
Serve you a cup a tea and a smile

If you are not there
May I sit at your spot?
May I sip inward your words
so peacefully carved out upon
this picnic table?

One more question for you
Why does the rough cord bind the legs of
the table?  Does it represent the the tottering of
thoughts?  The resilence of time? The care of others
to preserve words, thoughts and places to sit? Or is
it a special signal for other writers to see, to know
grace and letters fall freely here?

For you,  the man that writes on the beach
on the picnic table
in the sun
You brightened my days there
May that table continue to brighten yours