Fleeting Whim

Gone with a Whim

Thoughts come upon me,

quickly these days.

Like smoke in a daydream,

indistinct in the haze.

I capture them sometimes,

and hold on fast.

To create an idea meantime,

and hope that it lasts.

A story may emerge,

a poem or a joke.

I dare not tarry.

I dare not choke.

For these whims of fancy,

are flighty at best.

Will be gone in an instant,

if I let them rest.

So I take up my pen,

figuratively, that is.

And jot down the thought,

before it goes, fizz.

Like the carbon dioxide,

escaping an abandoned Coke.

Like a mystery unraveling,

still hidden under a cloak.

So I scooped this one up,

before my eyes grow dim.

And captured it, before,

it was gone with a whim.

Copyright 2017 © Ronald W. Hull

3/5/17