Monday, August 23, 2010

Dry Spell


Fragile tumbleweeds of thought are blown randomly astray by the dry wind.

          A single idea howls at the moon; mournful, primitive, wordless.  
 It is answered by others, but each is alone. In concert only in their solitude.

         Dust clouds the mind. Shapes swirl like devils, taunting, formless.

One prays. For the clarity of a cool stream. For the slow light of dawn.
 And in the dark turmoil the answer:
Peace, Child. It shall come.
    

2 comments:

  1. Rick - there is many an evening I get home from a brutal day in the field and all that comes to me is (in the voice of Homer Simpson).

    Beer. . . Donut.

    When the muse hits, as it does, in the wee hours of the morning or night, usually in some hotel somewhere, I'll write a week's worth.

    Don't force it. Wit and prose like yours aren't meant to be.

    Best to you and your family.
    B.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks, Brigid.
    I'll take a walk around the lake tomorrow after work.
    Woods and water are always good for the soul.

    If something blogworthy drifts into my brain, so much the better.

    All our best to you as well,
    Rick

    ReplyDelete

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