I look for treasures out in the open—
sea glass, shells, a beach-tumbled, wave-turned stone—
no digging beneath the surface for clams:
much seeks to stay hidden or left alone.
I listen for words so clearly spoken—
“good morning, John,” “what’s up?”, “the sky is blue”—
their meaning has no drift, subtext, or tone:
just thoughtful or thought-provoking and true.
I tend to things before they get broken—
a weak-spined book, my heart, a worn-out tire—
no hunting for the proverbial clue:
the consequences are often prior.
Always, I love what I put my hope in—
small adventures, planting a tree, a kiss—
no wasted waiting for time to expire:
no moment is more important than this.
John Delaney is the author of Waypoints
(Pleasure Boat Studio, Seattle), a collection of place poems and Twenty
Questions, a chapbook (Finishing Line
Press, 2018). In 2016, he moved to Port Townsend, WA, after a lifetime in the East, where he was curator of historic maps at Princeton. He’s traveled widely, preferring remote, natural settings, and is addicted to kayaking and hiking.
