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Its Wednesday feeling like Friday.
One in the morning feeling like three.
Slivers of dew have dried onto pages
of warm yesterdays on the window,
and I feel another warm day coming.

Today’s flow of words hint another walk
over smooth rocks that not all look alike
but are. Ebbs of adjectives wish to play hide
and seek but nouns stand firm
on pebbles playing king; while verbs wade
with weak ankles in ponds of syllables.

Rhyme and Meter trace yesterday’s dew
drops....keeping company with a see-through
past of fragile words frozen on the window
sill as if to catch them.... to save their dismal
futures from failing.

I fish in the creek and hide behind a tree
mistaking it for one of knowledge.
I too am translucent. Meter or Rhyme do
not see me or my fragile words
dulled by the murmur of yesterday’s
syllables.

“Here. I am here.
Can’t you see me?”
I want the privilege to stand as a king
on the pebble in a slow moving stream
but my words are lost to the dull murmur
of yesterday’s syllables.

Wanting to be found a fly fisher
with a crate of culerful lures,
Nouns of new meaning, Verbs with wings,
I catch nothing. Nothing. Time seeming to
fly by itself not needing me
or the fish to give it respectability.

Occasionally I pluck a new lure, today
Jasmine, praying its savor will waken
hungry ears and rest on impeccable
tongues.

Jasmine. Will it be fodder, a part of speech
conveying a plot.... or nothing but another
sweet smelling rambling vine?
Heaven forbid.

My heart of stone is no longer a heart
but a pebble in a creek being stood upon
by a captor of words whose ankles diappear
when the snow melts and the earth
welcomes another Wendesday morning
when pages of dew paint new pictures
of old people upon glassy windows
creating a scrapbook of fish scales
resembling someone we think we know.