I have often wondered,
what it is going to be next?
What form it will take,
what circumstance will force it’s inception?
What wind will blow
to take it up into the sky?
The grounded mind
deigns not to seek of God.
The listless,
untethered spirit
rides undaunted
upon the storm
and upon the gale,
plays wistfully in mountain meadows,
sits and shares memories with the noon Sun
and the crescent Moon,
never asking permission
to be relevant,
or with purpose.
Would that I were such a gossamer thing,
to lite upon the winds
and wave up at the stars.
Feet might as well be roots
for all the good they are for flying.
Thoughts might as well be stones,
for all their floating.
How will it look?
The words,
the mind,
the expression?
How will it suit the ear,
the mouth,
the page?
Will it please the eye
to read them,
or will they be abhorred?
I guess I’ll never know
until I write them.
So, I carry on.
-HG
