It’s odd
To be so intensely connected with one self’s interior…
To constantly bathe in past memories like sepia coated 60s reel…
To flip through emotions, cataloging their density yet being unable to see through the great complex field…
How does one have the entire plot?
How does one have all the development?
Yet lack the ability to articulate a proper character analysis?
It seems almost nonsensical,
To have all the experience but none of the memories.
Is it the time, a track not run all the way through?
Or is it a common oversight, a piece just out of view?
All this musing feels a bit inane,
These cyclical thoughts nearly driving me insane.

With each advent of sun-showered lemon
wonderment happens,
a springing of close-coloured denseness
floods valley and field.

Local daffodil time opens frilly with captured
scents of happiness,
jam-packed with massed heads all nodding
welcome gilt greetings.

A yearly looked-for experience is this, so
breathing in sunshine
under blue sky I bend down to eye level,
and lie alongside an ocean
of yellowness wealth to feel floral motion
of therapy's finest.

To be momentarily floating atop flittering
waves of essence
is like swimming in Spring-coloured bliss.