the fool sat
a tattered notebook
filled with
indecipherable scribbles
and childlike sketches
sat ignored
upon his lap as he
stared at the birds
darting amongst the branches
of flowering bushes
in a delicate panic
of hollow boned necessity
the pages rustling
in warm wind blowing
over dusty brown fields
and gnarled stunted trees

the spine of the old
neglected journal of dreams
as yet unfulfilled
was worn just enough
that one lone page
an ode to wildflowers with
smudged cartoon hearts
scribbled in the margins
worked itself free
and before the surprised fool
could snatch it
the page was flying
the ingrained wooden memories
of leaves fluttering
once more a reality
and something awoken
drenched in his longing
baptized in her perfection
and the paper delighted
in this joyous new freedom