Again, the New

In fine-line, world out of time,
sinking ink
down through summer-glare bright white.
Paper canvas, ready to receive the emergence of
deep-buried thoughts and newly-conceived words;
waiting, so ready.

Where is my destination?
In what form shall my aim be found?
I am searching, but not hard;
I am looking, but my eyes see only
the beauty of blossoming spring,
the bloom of Apriltide.

Earlier,
before the spontaneous speech
of bird-melody
- and rustle of wind in blue sky, green fields -
rain.
No lightness of April showers,
no sprightly descent of
pearl-drop shine, no:
heavy clouds, dark clouds,
rolling in over our heads and making us forget
the sun.

But the pain of forgetting
has been banished once again,
and now we bask in the pleasure of
being reminded anew.