Drifting thoughts, I sense them
and in some way I rejoice
that the dangling memories
are finally given voice.
Babbling for several hours
in strangled words of hope
which smell of flowers
and desert winds uncloaked.
I seek the praise of the sky
as it smells blue overhead
and in this mystery I
listen to blessings of rain
which shock the drone I hear
as I flash from hill to hill
and let the grass grow near
the pieces of me that are free
and left to be explored.
Somehow this begins a phase
that matters more and more
to the unsubstantial flags
that waver in the silken air.
In truth they are but rags
of despair captured in pieces
of cloth that suggest crying.
So I open my mind
to the hurting that is sighing
its message in a bottle.
I pick up the scattered scene
that was created for my life.
In this way I am never seen
for the dangling verbs
that prance playfully across
the treasured words
of a moment wanted but
now forgotten.