Spring brings me memories
That I cannot remember
They are commonly found in
Scents
The iron smell of after-rain and before-rain, too
The slightly musty smell of my bedroom
And flower-smell strengthened by that rain
The light
Hitting just so on my old mustard yellow desk and chair
Filtering through soggy leaves and grey clouds
Filling the air with gentle gold
The feel
The feel of the rough grain on the brown-grey weathered porch
The touch of old blankets
The worn ropes on the hammock
Where I lay
On cotton pillows
And read of fantastic journeys
And feel content with the new beginnings
And long-forgotten memories of spring
Wish I knew where this poem was going. Sometimes I don't know what I'm even writing about- is that a bad thing?