Whispers in the Clover
Drained, like a cup that holds too little
Dry, like deserts approaching noon.
The inspiration juices flow
Then turn to bits of coal
Scattered like the sand upon a dune.
Stories drain from view, like raindrops hitting glass,
And the hints of meaningful poems fade away.
If I could grasp the deeper meanings
And phrase new beginnings
Then the child of inspiration might stay.
But inspiration is like a childlike impish lover,
Spontaneous and passionate, just until it’s over.
So I try to be inspired, seeking phrases not yet said,
For if passion is emotion, then I say it must be fed
By imagination’s ah-ha moment and Whispers in the Clover.
D. Thurmond / JEFalcon
09-04-2019
