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A myriad poems I have written.
Many more I have spoken or sang without writing down.
And many more I have fragments of,
waiting to be tied to the rest.
And countless more I have seen or thought of
or dreamed
or known to be there.
All within reach.
But these myriad I have committed to ink here
and in my other books.
A myriad poems I have written during the past decade.
Slightly longer, as a month is to the cycle of the moon,
as the circumference of a circle is to the line across its center,
as a man's ten is to a woman's three times three.
A myriad poems I have written during the past four thousand days.
Four thousand days ago today
I lost my first muse to a cruelly abusive early death.
She left me pieces of poems she had to leave behind,
and she sent me to her mentor.
A decade ago today after I had found in him a mentor my own,
he pointed me toward a casting call that led me to my new muse.
One thousand nine hundred days ago today
my mentor began a new life
after walking through death for us a dozen times.
Forty four months ago today I lost another kindred spirit
and partner in crime for my poetry and my devotions,
again to an untimely death.
And in those four thousand days
and through that decade
and with these past nineteen hundred days
and their forty four months,
a myriad poems have I breathed through my pen.
Credit Nancy for the fire.
Credit Adrien for the discipline.
Credit Sara for the breath.
And for the life and the love, credit one who wishes not to known.
Still in grief after losing Nancy,
ten years ago I initially had every intention of quickly following her,
after first obtaining from Adrien the archives
she had entrusted to him to be held for her daughter.
Adrien sensed the risk I posed to myself
and pointed me to a 100-poem challenge,
then specifically bringing to my attention a casting call
made almost simultaneous to my challenge launch.
I met Sara as I was working on those 100 poems.
The rituals instilled by that poetry challenge
and the spell woven by that casting call
and the fun I had with Sara
saved my life and reignited my heart.
Those 100 poems were and will always be the core
of the myriad I have written around them.
Those 100 poems I began at this very moment a decade ago,
I dedicated to Nancy and the faith she and I shared.
I wrote those 100 exclusively in sonnet form,
reflecting the fortnight of the days in half a moon's cycle,
from new moon to full moon in the odd-numbered sonnets,
then from full moon returning to new moon
in each succeeding even-numbered sonnet.
Reflecting the continuity of the moon's passages,
each sonnet was connected to both its predecessor and its successor,
as in a close mirror.
With the full circle of sonnets representing 50 moons,
the images I worked with were designed to approximate a 4-year leap cycle
centered around the moment I first met Nancy,
although I doubled up on images and memories and expectations
to suit each fortnight's particular timing.
I wove in cycles of our stars,
made love to many of Nancy's own poems,
collaborated with Sara,
and blended my voice with my muses both old and new
as best I could.
Throughout,
the ritual served me
for devotion to our one Muse.
Those who choose to wish me ill
have falsely accused me of speaking in riddles,
of employing poetry's holy language of metaphor to conceal.
Our faith has held our knowledge in secret from the earliest.
Such secrets are not fashioned to withhold knowledge
nor to kill it,
but to preserve it
and to believe it
and to give it new life
from one to another.
Those who choose not to accept me for who I am
have falsely laughed at my faith
and made fun of my words as if they were mere games.
Our faith has been rejected by countless of every people.
I do not write seeking publication or audience,
no hidden agenda.
So also I crave the acceptance of none,
not even that of my mentor nor my muse,
none save the favor of our Muse.
For reasons related to my rituals
and for those with whom I have been writing,
I consider this moment as the midpoint of a 20-year cycle,
as also the midpoint of an 8,000-day period of my writing,
embracing 3,800-day periods and 88-month periods of life and love.
As dreamed, so willed.
As willed, so created.
As created, so done.
As done, so blessed.
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pearls 
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