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.





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