It’s a hidden place.
And in this place
there is a spring,
an opening in the fabric
of normalcy
from which flow
all ideas and stories,
poems and songs and images.
They leap high into the air,
and rain down over me,
bathing, cleansing.
And while most
of these precious droplets
simply fall to earth
to be absorbed
and reappear another day,
a tiny few cling to me
and I get to take them home,
wring them out,
and press them between my pages.
I get to make them mine.
November 29, 2019
Brian Kenneth Swain