Shaun Lowe
A wonderful friend sent me a poem the other day... another one of those that speaks to my heart.  The mountains, the spirits, and those that speak, intoning from a mysterious place?  Is this coming from the cracks of my soul that flow out like rivulets of water into the poetry airstream?  The only difference between myself and the author of this poem is that when I look out to the mountains and speak into the sky, I sing instead.

To the Reader: Twilight by Chase Twichell

Whenever I look
out at the snowy
mountains at this hour
and speak directly
into the ear of the sky,
it’s you I’m thinking of.
You’re like the spirits
the children invent
to inhabit the stuffed horse
and the doll.
I don’t know who hears me.
I don’t know who speaks
when the horse speaks.