I am distracted by the cloud drift
puffy
I am inadequate by the measure of trees
their new spring green leaves
I am the way rain grays white, ominous
aquamarine is the sky
I am the way the moon appears during the day
solid bulb, rock in the cumulous fluff.
I am the sewing needle of the silver plane
darting through and across.
what kind of tree? oak, mimosa, dogwoood
what kind of cloud other than cumulous? stratus, nimbus, thunderhead
corrections, why the ominous, the grey?
the restlessness
the noise in my head
rockbands of pound, unfinished, not rehearsing
Jung would probably say
death
the way dreams are always about sex, loss of control
anxiety
never about
plot, narrative, nothing is as it seems
like this jewel of sky
the height of trees
the clutter moving in and out
stunning beauty of it inviting gaze
instead of concentrating on rocks in a tumbler
wanting to be more than just
ideas.
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