Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Unsung

Clinging to hours,
clouding and clearing my throat strings,
with the elusive wish to sing
while musing how the world is so full
and so empty,
how the mind drifts,
how rain falls,
how the wind changes so freely
bringing pollens and scents of flowers
into my nostrils.

How creative everything is,
yet, how mundane!

And still, what I want to sing
remains unsung.

Without my song, no breath.

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Prompt: But not quite there yet