A Watery Rescue

After a watery interlude,
the morning maintains strangeness
exiled from expectations—
a quizzical breath,
an idea skewed:

Someone told me, “I don’t like poetry.”
Meaning what? I don’t like rhyme…?
rhythmic thinking…? love…?
a pulsing beat…?
compressed philosophy?

Responses niggle knowhow;
puzzlement piques the move
to make some magic
in a word-by-word way.
Maybe even now…

Such a welcome Souther
wafts an idea to land
on the white sand of day:
a little mark, a dash or two,
a wavy line, another...