I crave the depths of introversion,
like deep pencil marks scrawn
with purpose over a blank page.
I hide beneath my blanket of thought
that busyness tends to misplace
in his frenzied routine, but I can not stay.
Drawn as a moth displaced in day,
I spindle my senses to flock
over earth’s playground.
Thoughts refuse to remain mute.
They erupt from a bird’s trumpet,
making promises of another meal, soon.
From the swoosh of an airplane,
marking up sky in its wake.
They sigh out from bamboo chimes
reciting ancient tales of the breeze.
Quieter, still, are the whispers
of white blossom children playing
over spring’s fresh new landscape.
And if you edge in close enough,
you can hear the maple tree
loosening his belt, just a little,
to add one more ring.