I’ve not done a Washout Lane entry in quite some time.  Despite that, I have many drafts that never reached fruition even though I purged much of this detritus in recent attempts to clear the blog of its nearly-a-decade worth of junk.

This is one such piece of debris that I didn’t delete.

As representation of the kind of notes I jot down frequently hoping they later become something more, I can’t find a better example of the kind of synaptic dump I put to digital pen.  What follows does not represent a completed writ of any kind; this is not a ‘work’ of mine.  However, it does represent a mental purge that once held promise I can no longer identify.  And since it means something to me these many years removed even though I can’t identify its original meaning, I felt it best to purge it via publish rather than delete.

leaden skies reach toward every horizon
polished in shades of gray I dare not imagine
colors blossoming, reaching, becoming

nature wears it well, that gray
that dim and dark and dank dress that smells of rain
would that we felt such cheer in shadow

her tears brush me lightly
how she loves to cry
i drink in every drop

what bounty
what verve

i hear whispers on the wind singing just for me
calling my name
the tap of her shoes upon concrete

orchestras throughout the eons dreamt of such audible grace
if only they had listened

my hand dangles mindlessly out the car window
my fist grasps at what cannot be held
my palm holds the ethereal

i can taste her beauty on thick air

hummingbirds waltz to music I scarcely comprehend
they sing and twirl just for me

lilies bathe in the drops
they hold it for their own, balance delicately its essence atop their petals
what aroma they cast up and out, toss upon stormy breezes

does anyone see nature’s ball

how slow her wet confetti prances from heaven to earth
how gentle
how welcome

children of the dew cannot weigh so little