Some days
the words are just there.
They flow
as if someone tipped the pitcher
and it was full
and it was ready
with each drop
spilling a little bit of my heart onto the page
in an order that mystifies
even me
when all is said and done.
It's the cigarette moment
the one where I lie back
and inhale
wondering
what the hell just happened.
There it is.
There. it. just.
Is.
I sat on a handful of
thoughts
for this piece for the longest time.
Just the longest time.
They were like
snippets of highways
leading
no where
and everywhere.
Leaving me clueless
about the destination.
And then I saw the picture.
It reminded me of the moment
these first words were born.
On a warm summers night
at the end of a long day.
I looked off to the West
and I thought
to myself
"You live in the sunset...."
and it might as well be a million miles away.
Thank you for the photo
which tipped the pitcher.
Thank you for the story
which spilled onto the page.
Thank you, God
for the sunsets.
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