August 18, 2017
Photo by Brittany Taylor

A Poem by Kate Wallace Rogers

Everything falls in
place just as I awaken
the author of my space.
I live with abandon,
spilled-ink blue windows
open and overflowing,
a flush of saffron light
soaks my skin. So sure
all I need to do is write.
It’s all there is left.
I am breaking, down
to my last thin dime,
my two cents, my five senses,
fragmented sentences
stacked up like cairns
marking the tao,
the way I may live
this journey, today.
I live on love
of stones, see through
the eyes of goldenrod and seals and wind.
Comb the dunes for berries,
rose hips, mushrooms;
walk the sand for clams;
pick the rocks for mussels
and I ambs: da duh, da duh, da duh, da duh.
I am not what I fear:
the rising tide, the drowning near.
No need to explain the lure of shadows,
how my words swim around footprints.
I own my shame.
How do you do?
Why compare me to who?
Ever, as if I could make excuses,
be something I am not.
No more trying to fit in,
to be that other, brother, mother, lover.
Just live in this space of creative conviction–
convinced I am all I need to be
to love the real me,
the one who lives relentlessly.
What else could I do?
Whom else could I surrender to?

To submit a photo or a poem, email Interim Library Director Brittany Taylor at