Water’s running down the curb
Someone’s sprinkler head has failed
Shall I take my normal route
Or follow and see where it ends
Silly question - Off I go
I don’t often walk this street
It rises steeply at the top
The stream comes from much further up
But I’m determined to see where...
Oh! What’s that by the puddle there -
A tiny little humming bird
Darting just above the flow
I stop to watch - this is a treat
The tiny thing with atomic wings
Hovers here and there
Than lands at water’s edge
It’s only centimeters deep
But to him it is a river
At last he settles in the stream and drinks
His needle beak darts in and out
He doesn’t know I’m watching him
Entranced
And now he dips his wings and head
And fluffs his feathers in the morning air
Giddy as a toddler in a splash pool
It feels so good
He does the same thing two more times
While I stand stock still, transfixed
At last, refreshed and clean, he  launches
Into the heart of a nearby tree
And disappears from view
I can’t see him any more
So I move on -

The broken sprinkler still calls me
I find it only two doors up
A geyser by the driveway
Burbling up their water bill
The homeowners likely still asleep
In this very early morning hour
I don’t know the residents
So I don’t go knock on their door
I’m sure they’ll see it soon enough
And shut the water off
It’s blazing hot but I feel cool
Walking along the little stream
That’s running down a street
Called Rippling Springs - how appropriate
Each morning walk is a different gift
As I make this new place into my home
But spying on a humming bird
In the comfort of his morning bath
Is a treasure that’s above the rest
                     ljm

I know it’s hiding out there somewhere
That long sought after perfect verse
A silver dove that is a poem
And rides the wind on platinum wings
But I am blinded and I don’t know
The where or how to look for him.

I can hear his melody
And even catch a trace of words
But his glossary eludes me
And I can’t unlock the message

The pain’s a little bit like childbirth
I don’t know how to let it out.
I can’t pick up a razor blade
The need is more than only blood

Longing is a visual thing
Comprised of mist and foggy shadows
That render it impossible
To see a way to find that dove
The one whose tracks are etched in time
Across the sands of living
And the roadway to achievement

The struggle yet continues on
The beating in my weary chest
Is other than my  heart.
Another bird is trying to escape
It may not be the silver dove
But no one shuns a Robin

Somehow the vents are closed.
And little wings are growing weak.
It must not suffocate inside
Unsung, unwritten and unread.
                ljm

Is a poet still a poet
If they do not write?

A journal gathering dust,
But a yearning to write.
Am I still a poet
Without my inner light?