Inspiration, writers’ block, ideas…I could write about all or any of these topics. Instead, I thought I’d simply post another poem – plus, of course, a picture (with far better weather than we’re having here) – and let it do the job instead.
I’m a collector of images long stored in my memory,
A desert inferno of razor-sharp rocks.
A mountain breeze rippling an icy cold puddle,
Thick mists and thin soups, flowers, trains, and old shoes.
I’m a collector of memories, both mine and ones borrowed,
The harrowing journey, the lovers’ first kiss.
There’s betrayal and loyalty, flatulence, hope,
There’s a child being born, and a wolf at the door.
I’m a collector of stories, the stranger the better,
Believable, odd, and ridiculous too.
Close to home or historical, alien, fanciful,
Some to keep secret and some I can tell.
I’m a collector of moonbeams and of chance reflections,
A collector of sadness and bittersweet pain.
A collector of strangely shaped stones in a circle,
And dreams that tell stories I don’t understand.