Clouds move slowly across a morning sky,
and our sun’s rays show bright in the day.
Language and words, diction and phrase,
will fall, eventually, on the blank page.

Hands push hair out of the way,
showing a face once hidden.

Soft grass pushes up against my ears,
As the note pad to my left drifts away.
Pen and all, floating from where I lay,
taunting me to chase and keep it near.