well first off
i just wanted to hang out
with the writer's group people
but i knew i had to have something
to say my ticket
to enter the core the clique
the cult (which is nothing
but a miniature culture of like minded creatures)
first i had to find my freedom
the sound and the sense of something
the words of my poem and place them
in a form the circle could embrace
i traced the trail back to
some time before the words were formed
and the world was new
a fine mist rose from the garden
obscured the sun like a moon
it hung above the whispering trees
lit the glowing morning glories
yes they existed back then as they
do today climbing the broken stems of
older frames
in my front yard
picture this a world new as a
two year old and unspoken only
the breeze coming down from
the mountain where the snow
lies where the ice forms before
it releases its water to the
streams the rivers of the valleys
the gardens of the earth
picture this a bird
singing in a voice like a flute
like a lute a song
never heard before
never heard again
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