I cannot write of what I see:
a three in one, Synedoche.
I will not tell all that I know:
an epic story from the Flow.
Impossible to taste or touch
or breathe one scent of much too much,
the tender movement from above
that flutters inward like a dove.
And in the breeze, that vital air,
no ear can hear the freshness there.
Never can it be contained,
imprisoned in a dream maintained
by wistful longing for a time,
then captured by a simple rhyme.
No poem worthy, nor a song:
Desire of a true heart strong . . .
Photography and Text © 2017, Timothy Waugh