Dare to dream, believe poems

do not begin in smoke,


imagination, triggering town,

genius, whiskey, dope.


Instead, find life in a small idea,

concept, kernel, spark.


The bare thought, like wind,

swirling in, never twice


the same way whooshed.

Nonetheless, always blowing,


always the wind.

Catch a westerly breeze,


sail toward faint horizon,

glimpse new land in mist,


ride savage surf to shore.

There, in sand, a kernel,


soon poetic flour, unbeached, 

ready for baking. A feast


of sorts, the first draft

not all that iambic.

                                Timothy Pilgrim