When It Comes To Me

I often sit for long periods of time hoping the perfect beginning will come to me. To write a poem that starts with a pristine Capital leaving readers with great expectations. But after much torment, with not a fleck of gold in sight, it's comes to my attention that much like life, How it Began isn't half as important as How it Finishes, (And neither as important as How it Is in the Present) That's how it was, in any case, when the landlord dropped the news that sunny Idahoan morn; It was a time for a change, they all said in unison: my sister, my brother, my mother --- And like the sweetest melancholy, I couldn't help but agree, For I knew no matter where I went I'd always have poetry ... (but now it seems she has alluded me) Through 2,500 miles and 9 states; through a million and a half brand new things ... and yet Inspiration refuses to sing. As I sit here in suspense for that metaphorical gravy train, wondering when the words will start flowing again. Will it be like it was before, when it comes to me? Ears perked to the extreme with expectations of a symphony? When it comes to me ... Will they laugh? Will they cry? Will my words come across like softest lullaby? Because sometimes our muse just up and leaves, we wonder why. But no my most cherished friends, we mustn't cry, for it's been a great adventure, has it not? Remember the words of Dr. Seuss: Don't be sad that it's over, Smile that it happened. Though words were once putty in my hands I now take in the beauty that encompasses me, content to just let it sit, without the need to express it ... But don't be fooled, Dearest Reader, for I have the highest hope that stars will dance, leaves will fly, birds will sing, WHEN it comes to me. But will you believe me when I say I've watched the stars fall and flicker between the leaves a hand's breadth from my fingertips? (go on and take a sip the magic's free) That I've breathed in the air, as if it were honeysuckle blooming in the sky just for me. Oh and how I wish you could see beyond the words of this page, for it's beyond a tragedy that all I have to give is this poem. You know I'd offer you my eyes for you to see the things I'm seeing. (put your hand on my chest, can you feel it beating?) Like the petals of a rose she holds me close: the place where the bright rubicund clay makes way for my Armstrongian footprints ---just one small step then comes the leap--- My arms spread wide hoping for discovery, but preparing for catastrophe ... And believe me when I say I couldn't dream of sleep, for when it comes to me the minstrels will weep, the prisoners'll be set free ... as emotions become ablaze in new and surprising ways. For there's a lily pad pond, just outside my backdoor .... that's begging for a tale to be penned. There's a place called Mount Alto sitting just like a storybook outside the backdoor, my friends, whilst I sit here listening to the cicadas sing in Valley Soprano, reminding me that everything is but a poem-in-waiting: The rolling green hills bearing witness of mountain familiarity; the black butterflies flitting between the berry blossoms of May. Everything is so new here ... far beyond anything I could ever say. And I hope I can do it justice, to paint a picture in your head, with every ounce of the things I've said ... (auto-biography? fantasy? you won't be able to tell the difference when it comes to me)