Than maybe ever
I am longing for hours.
To scratch out ideas
On brightly-colored paper
With the sharpest-possible-point of pencil.
And Thought, like a bird perched
Ready to fly
Somewhere he has never been:
The dirt-bank edge of a glassy lake
The shoulder of an ancient tree
Uncut grass, ripe with wild violets
And with my pencil
I will photograph
In stunning detail
All the places he has seen