It all starts
with a few little words
scribbled on a napkin
or one of those notepads
with a hotel logo at the top.
You don’t think much of it,
crumble it up,
stash it in the pocket
of your favorite jeans,
or the bottom of your purse,
and go on.
Like seeds, it spreads,
grows wings and blooms;
this petaled thing-
this voice.
Next thing you know,
it is shining, like sun,
glimmering
like those stars
that sing you home.
You wonder
how something so imperfect
could spread rhythm like wildfire,
breathe life into simple chords,
like a split second image
through a lens;
a shower of colors,
on a white canvas,
screaming blue.
~
~(day 24 NaPoMo a poem a day in April)
forget-me-not 