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.