THE FIRST DAYS OF SUMMER ARE OVER
If I could write something new
Something I do not know
Where to find the words
What is to be said
So I will write of honeysuckle, too
The sweet scent that fills the night
The city lights
The windows rolled down
There was nothing I could do
No way to stop what was
May 18, 2018
8 comments:
There is nothing new, so we write a new thing about the constant. I love the mood here, and the sense of suspension and even fate. Thanks for playing 55 with us, annell.
Honeysuckle deserves the stage. The uncertainty at the end is palpable. A good write.
I am reading Ayn Rand right now and let me tell you I am now in the constant worry that everything worth saying has already been said. Your Honeysuckles bring me a whiff of hope.
When we think about it, there are things we just can't shake until we write of it. Like the proverbial ear worm. I like the disposition that Mark Twain gave it in his "Punch Brother, Punch" ditty.
..
Some days, honeysuckle is all we have left... and that's a good thing.
I just love this for the simplicity- the quiet pace and rhythm, and the keen observations of the sudden sweetness of something "other" - the honeysuckle out of place, yet entirely within "home" .... and the last line is just perfect for a 55 ending.
Sweet and simple sets the mood.
I looked for the eagles yesterday
Even though I knew they were not there... haunting!
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