(This is a poem I wrote recently. It’s quite personal, but safely metaphorical. Enjoy!)

The wind rustles through the leaves

And disturbs the stillness.

A choir of crickets , unseen

Between the trees,

Launch into a monotone, yet lively,

Rendition of a lullaby.

They are confused – it is only

A quarter past noon.

I ignore them,

Face pressed against hand,

Hand pressed against page,

Page cooperatively being part of the

Book

In which I pour out my thoughts.

I sigh, and

Wonder which words would

Possibly

Suffice to describe this tedious moment.

The crickets have stopped, I notice.

But I spoke too soon…

Now they accompany my racing thoughts

With unmelodious banter.

There is a bush

Planted firmly in my mind,

Which I am beating around.

Its leaves are green and moist –

Freshly sprung from bud and

Touched by the glistening dew.

It longs to burst forth into

Flower,

To be noticed and adored…

But it has been told to wait.

Maybe the bush just isn’t ready to

Flower, he said,

It should wait until it knows

For sure

That it is ready.

Who knows,

He said,

Maybe it will just burst

Into flower spontaneously,

Without any warning!

Now, the bush knows

That it might not be ready,

But it does not want to wait

Indefinitely.

Agitated leaves rustle,

Spilling tiny beads of dew onto

The dirt.

The bush is crying,

And all I can do it

Beat around it and

Write silly poems.

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