"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Saturday, April 28, 2012


Day 28: Write a poem of space, perhaps just a general one (a building, for example) or a specific one with meaning (such as the dining room table you used to make forts out of).

In here it's
a swell of music,
drifting past branches
and feathery-yellow
flowers that seem
to hold on to nothing.
It's almost
anything, a home
or an escape, tended to
and forgotten
until a time of need.
Follow the scent
of darkness,
just a bare trickle
of sunshine floating in,
keeping one body -
or two -
safe and sound.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Beach House, 10 Mile Stereo

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