That time again.


It seems that time to rearrange things

There is that familiar dash in the nerves, afresh

It seems the leaves, red upon the branch tips concur

As does the grass ‘neath dewy feet, a green mess.

Characters come alive, protagonist the poet

Free, unread, untamed, untied

Write warm sunshine into the season

Pen into the plot, a charm and a confide

A dash of patience, and the days will change

However not was one unhappy here.

Maybe an instinct leads the path away

from smoke, to blue skies crystal clear.

One may gawk at the naivety of credence

but, unlikely it’ll shake this certainty

the possibility of a story woven in a land new

breaks even the writer’s inability

Begin again, baggage sans

in green meadows and starry nights

where the cold, playfully nips at the nose

the days spent in gorgeous sights

There is a familiar rush in the nerves

the one before an adventure or a fling

Bide the time, play along

Soon, it’ll be time to rearrange things.


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