Can’t find a piece of paper, that my pen has not been upon, Yet the umbrella before me, asking me to write a song.
Back yard, deck, umbrella on a table, two chairs to the side, the configuration only 3 years old, yet Irish Pennants fly, I tug on the string, it unravels doesn’t seem to care.
Slight wind, left over, from two earlier beautiful rains, I sit and release my pain, I hold on to the unraveling thread, my awareness heightened from the scene, life’s all about observing, the unraveling thread is me.
Umbrella…
a.
