The trees are telling secrets
They whisper to the breeze
She carries their thoughts in weightless arms
Tangling them through the curtains
I wish I knew what they said
Instead I bow my head
And try to find the poetry
That used to inhabit my pen
It once ran in the ink
And looped through my letters
It swam in my thoughts
And shook itself loose like a dog
Leaving me draped in tuneful song
It described the sky, the grass and the wind
I would barely awaken before it would begin
I didn’t have to try to rhyme
I just let go
And it wrote itself
In an endless murmuring poem
*I keep looking for my poetry, and it hovers just out of mind reach. A few tantalising trails light up, but then I think I grip too hard and wreck it. So, for now, instead of picking at that particular chrysalis, I will let the words emerge in their own time and write whatever else I want to be written.
I enjoy writing to explain things I find interesting to myself. There is a process that happens when I do that, I’m less likely to forget the information for one thing.
I’m finding that writing isn’t something I can order about. I can’t decide I only want to write poetry. The only writing I am in charge of is my to do list, which sometimes remains undone. It could be this or that or any one of a dozen things in my quest to become a daily blogger again. Guess we shall just run with it. If I start telling you about the weather and what I’ve had for breakfast you know I’ve hit a fresh low point in my creative journey – not to worry, I shall persevere.
So hello from me, I hope the day unfolds beautifully (or has done, depending on your time zone) 🦋
