Words string together
in my mind creating
chunks of meaning
and patterns of rhythm .
Thoughts flow through my shoulder
and down my arm,
a powerful rush
of storm water racing
through cement drain pipes
ending in the tributary
of my hand.
Fingers and thumb pinch
the hexagon pencil
and guide the tip along the
lined notebook page.
Graphite lines,
curves, and dots
form letters
into words,
shaping phrases
from left to right.
Images emerge:
a young girl nestles into
her mother’s lap;
a cat curls up
on the tufted sofa;
the August sun sinks
like a fireball
into the horizon.
Writing immortalizes
my ephemeral thoughts,
a permanent imprint
of my voice,
like the fossil
of an ancient creature
long gone
extinct.
Miracle, indeed. Each time I reread your verse, I find a fresh, new figurative treat. As for the storm water imagery, I’m taking that as inspiration as I’ve been experiencing more of a trickle as March tumbles into its latter half.
LikeLike
This is beautiful, I especially loved the analogy to the storm water. Your poem speaks the truth for me too. love love love this
LikeLike
This is a lovely poem, so many thoughts and ideas, so beautifully described that will just become distant unless we write them down. How true!
LikeLike
Lovely. Read it 3x. Like the “cement drain pipes”. Great imagery too throughout!
LikeLike