Photo Source: Pixels.com
By Seth Batiste, Ph.D.
Bold voices leap from lips like a victim trying to escape
the fire he created. Whines ungrace the unplanned morning, the unslept continuation
of yesterday. Camped kindness skips away in the music-less words of humming
Words have power like the wind. A boy once harnessed the wind. A girl from Kansas clicked her heels together, seizing an opportunity to venture. And, John Henry died with a hammer in his hand.
Potential lies in a weeded field. In the field over there.
And over yonder is a well-traveled hippo partnered with water. Remember the lattice that brings forth good memories, mothered memories of innocence. Hard, soft, and abstract distractions sound.
The morning noises somehow spell out serenity. Then, suddenly the quiet leaves the place which cannot determine cold or bloom. Hungry leaves rest on the ground. Hungry distractions sound over the southerly singing birds…if there be singing birds.
“Not now.” Seeps one voice.
The intelligent mind does play tricks. New growth is distorted, stagnant in faked communication to uninspired Fall.
Summer attaches to Fall, and Fall to Winter. Fall is here, and the yard is freshly mowed...but the leaves have nowhere to escape to.