The sea oats line the walkway back to the world.
Their smells are layered in the simplicity of salt air and the life of the unencumbered and the complexities of survival.
They blow against my arm alerting me to their existence, as if I needed a reminder.
Upon my return, the skies reflect the counterpart to the dunes as the sky has its horizon dotted with clouds and a backdrop of sun tinted pink canvas.
Their smells are layered in the simplicity of salt air and the life of the unencumbered and the complexities of survival.
They blow against my arm alerting me to their existence, as if I needed a reminder.
Upon my return, the skies reflect the counterpart to the dunes as the sky has its horizon dotted with clouds and a backdrop of sun tinted pink canvas.
Stepping onto the wooden walkway
I am mentally assaulted by words that compete for purchase on the open and empty slate
of my inner storyteller and writer.
Like errant children
they push their own agenda for attention
until I sort them into cohesive expressions.
Pick me
Pick me
Pick me
the words say
as they pop around my
brain like kernels in a pan of hot oil.
Like kernels in a hot pan of oil.
ReplyDeleteLove it.
Perfect metaphor for those pesky thoughts that won't stop.