Hands itch, words tumble and slip
I push them back, they cool their heels.
Distracted mind flings sporadic ideas,
rusty brain still needs a prod,
dormant creative urges still yawning,
I awaken them from a seven day slumber.
Scattered phonemes enjoy the merry go round,
morphemes lure their best mate,
the lexicon gives me a baffled stare,
I tenderly sweep the cobwebs.
The pink and white flowers, the green branches
my diurnal muses; beckon me to scribble,
white vowels and consonants on the black keyboard
anticipate my old touch.
I raise my head; the sun has set;
The hour hand rests on the middle digit,
Words at last find their way back home.
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