Struggling to bud, stretching, The ache reminds me that my inspiration Has seasons And dies sometimes.
I eventually start to wonder if it will ever return. Next I forget I ever had it And then things appear to me - Light spectrums stretch, I notice the weather, The blue filter removes, And I'd like to capture it, somehow - I turn my lens and let blur come to beckoning. I'd like to record this enlivened state of beauty Before I shift my gaze in ignorance And thanklessness.
My words are the flowers and the bugs I want to catch but leave alone To not abash their fluidity. I pet them with my pen And suppose questions I might ask If I could bother them for answers.