In a dream last night,
words fell from the sky out of raindrops and snowflakes,
falling as deep black ink out of the atmosphere,
into words splash! on a page.
It had one rhyming stanza,
and another not.
Like all true poetry,
it feels like light wind
on your hair
and goosebumps.
The words fell like pure experience
birthed into being, but
eternal like birth
and rebirth.
The words fell in the dream,
and I could not capture them.
For I am a
clumsy poet.
For wind to exist in a form
requires a particularly skilled
poet to get out of the way.
I will have to try again, but not today.