Inspiration has no particular source.
It appears in everything that surrounds us,
the little things that make us stop for a moment because
there it is again.
Fleeting, but more real than anything.
The sound of leaves,
rustling across the yard in the breeze that's just the perfect amount of crisp--
not quite spring, but no longer winter.
The feeling of bare toes,
padding across the creaky wooden porch.
The scent of bread baking in the kitchen,
the way your mouth waters the instant it catches your attention.
The taste of watermelon,
particularly when your feet dangle in the pool
and the sunlight dances across your shoulders.
The sight of sunrays,
filtering through the tree branches,
as your feet take you, almost subconciously, deeper into the woods.
The smells, the sounds, the sights, the tastes, the feelings
swirling together into an image that you long to put on paper,
but that no words, letters, drawings, lines, hatches, could ever do justice.