A cool light, undecided, comes,
tiptoeing, past day curtains,
hesitatingly, through branches,
that wave in earnest conversation,
casting moving shadows on walls,
shades of gray, crawl from floor to ceiling
with the day’s passing time.
The poet sits, a quiet observer
waiting for the unravelling
of the skein, and the muse’s promptings
to begin the first line, and start,
the weave of ideas, interleaving,
with images, feelings and memories,
that undecided, hesitatingly, come,
tiptoeing, past the mind’s day curtains.
The poet then paints, worded visions,
as resplendent, silvered words,
and then frames them in verses gold.
© 2017, Charlie Bottle. All rights reserved. © 2009 www.coelhos.us All Rights Reserved