Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

A moment ago I began
a poem and its first line
was: "You, too, have known
the promise of rain."

But I marked that through.
I mean,
who are you? And who am I
to think I know
your mind? Even now, I
bring you here assuming
you care at all
what I have to say. Odds are
you don't.

Where I sit as I write this
it is mid-June, and there is sun --but grey clouds building--
and the chimes are sounding
the moving light and the breeze, and --I swear
to God-- there are butterflies flitting about
the azaleas. But where are you now, and now,
and now, and how
is it our eyes are locked on the same
words though our hearts beat in different places,
the words sound in different minds
with different voices in different times?
Where will I be when you, at last, read this?

It is not for me to say. I pose
that, perhaps, it is you, after all,
who holds sway here.
You certainly seem all the more real
for this. And me? I am not certain
of anything anymore.

Except, perhaps, that you, too,
have known the promise of rain.

excellent work, Ghost!

there are no guarantees....we flit about as does the butterfly....perceptions the same as reality....well done.....what we feel is a unique experience...not better or worse than the next guy...it's just what it is