I walk along a dusted lane, listening to the sound of wind in the grass.
Hawk cries echo across this place as the sun descends beyond purple hills.
Cradled here in the midst of a volcanic bowl my feet pause before shadowed forms.
Rustling limbs sing within the evening breeze calling out to mortal ears.
Do I hear their words?
A thousand thoughts press in upon my distracted mind passing through empty palms.
Have I missed their purpose?
Tracing their lines with naked eyes I breathe out in silent revery.
What are they telling me?
Impatient with my youthful attention I turn away pointing feet toward home.
Perhaps I will try again tomorrow.
Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.