In mid tumble it swayed sideways. It looked like a butterfly, but there betrayal came in the landing. A falling yellow leaf is what it was. But, for a moment, it was pure joy to watch. At least I could see it. It’s better than chasing a memory that remains illusive. One that I still haven’t been able to bring into full focus.
Now, through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings..I listen closely. Along with the voice were melancholy strains from a horn played by the likes of Miles or Coletrane.
I should know this, I do know this. I close my eyes and surf the notes, willing and carefree. It’s laced with a hint of the blues. Maybe not remembering this title is a gift. Because I would just play it over, and over again, to what end?
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:— –by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., from The Chambered Nautilus.
This line is to be incorporated into a piece of prose over at dVerse Poets Pub. The deadline to submit to the prompt has come and gone. But I’m now posting it to OLN ( open link night) To check out what’s going on over there go to the link above. A good weekend to all.
Not sure what’s going on with me on the inside. Whatever it is, its not truly bubbling up to the surface. It’s lurking deep within. Every now and then I get snatches of it. It feels like shades of blue. On this spring day, winter lingers. The kid-musician down the block is not helping. The mournful notes from his violin an interim shroud to these snatches of blue.
crows atop branches
flit at the bidding of the wind –
on the lookout for spring
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