Flow

I try to write every day.  Sometimes there are true bits and pieces, sometimes only a little shine.   Sometimes it flows, beginning to end and I have no idea where it came from.  I think of the preaching professor at Seabury who used to say: Every sermon won*t be a sonnet.  And, of course, there are all the sermons or reflections which people hear or read in such completely different ways that a part of me wants to say: Why work on it at all?  But I do.  It seems I must.  

Sometimes

When I write

I collect the true bits

At the end,

Discard the rest.

Sometimes

When I write it flows true

Maybe blue

Perhaps it recalls the sky,

Maybe water dappled in reflected clouds.

Sometimes there are birds,

They string it all together

In flight

In song

In hop.

They cock their heads and listen

For worms

Underground.

Sometimes

Only sometimes

Like rivers,

Like clouds blown

Like birds,

When I write

It flows true.