I hope you won't mind my repeating myself.
That's just naturally one of the hazards of hanging out with an older person, I suppose.
Or maybe it's not really a hazard. Could it be a benefit?
In any event, I've been thinking about spring ... you know, that season when the sun puts a friendly arm across your back ... things are greening up ... there are spots of color here and there ... the weather becomes stable, dependable, predictable.
In that vein ... the expectation of spring ... real spring, I was thinking about today's poem, about butterflies ... about how fleeting (flitting?) events of our lives ... or seemingly, large portions of our lives ... can be.
It's also about how much writing has meant ... still means ... to me.
I write because it keeps my mind occupied ... it's the warm sun on my back in the wintertime ... my shade in the summer heat ... the air I breathe ... a quiet sip of water ... food for my soul ...
I write because I must. I am most reluctant to give it up. That thought was uppermost ...
But now the poem:
There must come a time,
I suppose, when I no longer
reach for a scrap of paper
when thoughts descend,
gentle, winged things,
the nectar of a poem,
but then I'll simply sit
and let them flit
across my mind's eye,
grateful for how once
they softly touched
the paper of my heart.
(originally published in Sisters Today)
Today's word: nectar