On a dark and rainy morning, I am writing by candlelight. Such a small and sacred light, while outside the world sings its oldest, most loveliest song - the coming home of the oceans and secret waters of the hills. Rain more than anything else, even more than the cliche of the sunrise, reminds me how we live inside a love story.
For over ten years now I have been writing from the edge of the world. It means two things - where I live, and what speaks through me. Mornings like this, the edge seems to dissolve into its own magic. All becomes water and broken stone. I find myself unable to write with even one ounce of poetry: I think I too have dissolved. Into peace, into love, into the old wild magic that dwells just on the other side of the edge, and slips through these quiet rain-drenched mornings when islands become dark moons and the moon itself becomes memory. But I guess there is no need to write poetry when you are sitting heart-deep within it. For then the conversation between you and wild magic, moons and falling oceans, can become truly intimate.