To Jon, A Poet
Jonathan, you understand,
That guided by your writing hand,
Your head discovers distant land;
So sail.
Take your ship across an ocean,
Where no man's compass guides you;
Beach upon the golden sand,
Flowing from your writing hand;
And no one's there besides you.
Whatever you can put on paper
Of your voyage through your mind,
Tell us what you'd hoped to find,
And what you found
Upon the ground:
Roses growing in the sand,
Flowing from your writing hand.
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