Can you tell when the magic is  about to happen.
When the hook is taking hold.

Do you get  a funny feeling when it comes together
When the reason finds a rhyme

The feeling fits the word.

The senses  click when the tumblers fall in line.
The phrases hover then flutter.

A drifting mist takes flight. It soars  defiantly.  

A fleeting thought turns slowly round and round.
A drop of rain falls slowly then swiftly then ripples on shimmering pond.

Ripple, ripple wider still  running free to bank.

The lapping sound I hear in deep. Indeed the simple echo.
My mind asks how this came to be. In truth it even puzzles me .

Call it what you will my friends. I call it poetry.

I now  careess  my  blue guitar. It takes me on the journey
The instrument it masters me as I have learned the rote.

A dewdrop trembles  on  the   E string then echoes and cries softly. Fretted gently it


whines and squeals in sad ecstasy. The blues in my hand.


The motion in my mind.
The ripple of the pond.
The union.               Nubile and free.