The Poem Not Meant to Be a Poem

Where do all the ideas go; where do they come from? I wonder, staring at a blank, bland document. A great tree of life, sparkling above, forever tucked away, just out of reach? And then the leaves rain down. There! A streak, a spot, a drop of color, shifting, shifting with the tides of thought. 

I reach up. At my disposal are hundreds of leaves, thousands of leaves, spinning and spiraling past, missed moments in a moment of time. They are all breathtaking. And no sooner than when I reach up, they twist and dance, playing a game; I do not understand. The minutes tick by. Even at the grasp of each leaf, I hesitate, and it browns, blows away, and dies. The period is over. I am left at a desk, adrift and alone. I am lost in a whirlwind of chances, each lost too. 

Where does your inspiration originate? A cool stream, the ripples pulsing, trickling by? 

Aha! A song without words, drowned out in a chorus of others? 

A cloudless sky, a forever blue sphere, and you, insignificant, with all your hopes and dreams: trying just to glimpse the speck of a star. 

Without looking up, I open to any possibility. Finally, a leaf, drifting down, an eye in the midst of a storm, settles in my outstretched arms. It will do.