Was having trouble coming up with an idea of what to post…(I blame this stupid fever!) and decided on this…
A long time ago, I used to write poetry. I don’t much any more as a lot of my focus is on fiction, but you can always tell those that write fiction who also write poems. There is a certain symmetry, rhythm to their words. Ah, there is a beauty to writing words that sound good and taste good on the tongue…
My mother asks me: Why don’t you go for a walk? The sun is nice and bright today.
But what she does not know is that I am already walking
at least that’s what I say.
I’m walking through a meadow of flowers. There are rose scented petals on my fingertips.
I lift up my face to the blue-tinted sky and she doesn’t know
the sun’s a smile on my lips.
The sun warms my shoulders, the skin on my neck,
like the warmth of a blanket, heavily draped.
And I smell the warm air, warm and fresh to my nose,
as the wind rustles my hair in my face.
The color around me, the beautiful roses, the red and the green and the blue.
And here I am lying, my face turned away, while she says: why don’t you?
I touched the green clover, I smelled its green scent, the wind rustling, a purse to my lips.
I’m walking through a meadow of flowers and she doesn’t know
I’m touching the sky with my fingertips.