The Notion
A thought, a beautiful bird, sat on a tree
tried to grab it, but it flew away and was
liquefied, now I can’t even remember its
colour.
The thought is a river, as I put my hands
into it to stop its flow, it turns into a useless
seam of gold.
Gold diggers came, rich now they will
be interviewed, say weighty thing to
newspapers, we will nod in accord, surely
they must sages, as surely as I must find
another stream
I wait for a new thought to drift along,
without great fanfare, one that will change
itself into a beautiful bird that, in time,
will transform into a poem