I found it on a map this morning. I had been there once before but wasn’t looking, so I missed it I suppose. It is a place where poetry is born, where it wells up out of the earth, seeping across the landscape, casting an enticing light. It is a magical place to which few ever go, even fewer ever really see. It is open to all, silently inviting. It is so obvious, you tend not to see it even as you pass through it. Most passing through are going somewhere else, and all of the there’s on the way to somewhere Yet in that place I would not search for words, would not try to grasp wildly at and crystallize ideas, would not pare away the noise, in the search of perfect silence. There poems would come into being, the creator undemanding, unthought of, and I could gather them up, like apples ready to drop from the tree, like grape cluster burgeoning on the vine, imagining themselves wine. I know it is just down the road from Paia, nestled along the ocean where the waves lap the shore and whisper Haiku.