I’d be a better artist if I had drawn a boat and not a river. A better poet if I measured the weight of words, not clouds.
My mind wanders..

Do I seem undisciplined?

I feel the warmth of a door ajar as I sit upon an old stone floor, an empty page in my hand. My teacher mutters about a cat and shares not a word with me. With a large clang and a simple straw broom, his cat and I are swept outside like dust to spin and move like planets. Our eyes dart from edge to edge, trying to catch a glimpse of a small pebble on the inside of a birds mouth. I want to swim, reach, arch my mind around its wing. I bend toward my instinct but instinct only laughs and disappears.

The grass whispers to the pine.

I close my eyes.

He will only play as I dream, only enter as I become limp.

So I wait and the wait is sublime.

My best poems are paintings, but a secret fire burns from a dew drop in his hand.