surrounded by the pitter patter
of rain and rustling grass
as summer storm
binds loose leaves into books:
the memories come,
swirling a maze of whispers--
midnight and full dawn.
peeling back the sky
to see what lies beyond
and if these words together can form
the time we all dreamed of,
chasing a thought through four minds
that find each note without question,
as the tone of the air
leads fingers and throat to where
they will best strike the world.
--
Why do I write the most poems on days when I'm clearly incapable of cohesive thought? I feel like I should be inspired, but I'm not. Oh well; maybe more will come of sleeping on it.
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