No words to write/no stories to tell now …

Only experiences that happened; the day I peered into a robin’s nest, eight gaping mouths/the eerie sound they made/begging to be fed/  the night our house burned to the ground.

The reality of what I remember/the words i yearn to write/the forms and spiral hectographs that make it all so real/lost behind smoke in distant silence/the fog of stubborn beauty unrevealed/a gray curtain in front of a play that was forgotten/but will not go away.

The war of seasons past lost somewhere behind the sun waiting to be re-discovered; too unsure of myself, no light to guide my way/unable to continue what I hold so dear.

No arrows that I can fly through space and time/filled with color, action, the innocence of boyhood memory, the reverence for all that is real, lost in time now …  forgotten?

The glue that bound it all together grows brittle sticking to nothing.

The clouds above merely clouds now floating by.

I wonder if it will rain?