Will words come?
Ideas weave themselves
Like strings of spring vine?
Now it’s time …
A solemn answer,
Just your best.
Eyes cast upward,
Downward, right,
And left.
Eyes that beg
In dramatic
Silence.
Eyes searching
For minute
Flickers –
Tossed out by
Vague heres-and-theres.
Thinking, blinking,
Reaching backward,
Ah! Something ... something,
Rememb'ring at last!
Grabbing a time,
With sparks
Of relief;
There they are!
I see them, too!
In those baby eyes.
Follow the steps –
Pour on the juice –
Butter it up –
A kiss for Good Luck.
Our Stories,
Our Amens.
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 2:42 AM UTC
Will words come?
Ideas weave themselves
Like strings of spring vine?
Now it’s time …
A solemn answer,
Just your best.
Eyes cast upward,
Downward, right,
And left.
Eyes that beg
In dramatic
Silence.
Eyes searching
For minute
Flickers –
Tossed out by
Vague heres-and-theres.
Thinking, blinking,
Reaching backward,
Ah! Something ... something,
Rememb'ring at last!
Grabbing a time,
With sparks
Of relief;
There they are!
I see them, too!
In those baby eyes.
Follow the steps –
Pour on the juice –
Butter it up –
A kiss for Good Luck.
Our Stories,
Our Amens.