Inspiration Has No Particular Source

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.

That feeling

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,

painted yellow,

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. 

This poem is about: 


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