Each word is the gateway for another,
pathways opening whenever his tongue runs wild.
Flashes of white,
a grin that never falters
when he’s around me, even when the dark eats us up.
Every motion
has three words embedded in it,
a hallmark of our life and the future
we can’t know
yet will never fail to see.
Droplets of his thoughts cascade around us:
wetting the earth, the air
and refreshing the stale thoughts
clogging up my mind.
I cannot predict his tales,
and I do not wish to.
His muse is always keen to listen,
treading his rambling steps wherever they lead.
Treeshallow Musings 