When I'm without pen or keyboard,
Driving my truck,
Navigating a lake,
Walking in a river.
Like wispy clouds, once formed,
They dissipate overhead,
Never formed quite the same again.
As a writer, I'm always looking at things. Perhaps even staring. At people when I walk, when I drive, when I go to the grocery store. Sometimes, while waiting for a light to turn green, the best poems come to mind. They begin as images or little scenes that play out and the evolve into something bigger, deeper, or universal. Then they vanish. In the turn of a color on a traffic light, or the beginning of a new conversation they disappear like vapor, like wispy clouds, drifting through and then over and then gone.
Sometimes I wonder how many of these little gems have come and gone. There is a little trick they often play on me too. In the minutes after I awake, before I get up, I re-play ideas, events, interactions. Those puffy clouds sometimes reappear. They are momentarily recaptured, only to drift away again, usually for good.
I'm hopeful that they reside somewhere in tact. Perhaps in the unconscious mind. If so, they just might re-appear and allow themselves to be captured. Hope so.
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