On
a summer afternoon,
Sun
warming my body,
The
beginning of a story
Comes
to mind.
I
stir enough
To
capture it
In
shadow ink upon the wall.
Satisfied,
I
return to slumber.
Awaking
(still dreaming),
I
smile to see my tale
Still
there.
I
begin to read the words.
Each
collapses
Into
nonsense
At
the edges of my grasp.
I
rouse
To
the frustration
Of
a writer’s dream.
