That wicked wisp of judgment

Grasping at Smoke

This morning I awoke in a dream 

with a message writing itself 

on the screen of my mind 

in grains of sand. 

I cuddled my warm center

letting the words flow 

in a staccato dance. 

Words and pauses. 

Two words. 

Three words. 

Two words.

No clauses nor modifiers. 

Too short and abrupt, I thought. 

I’ll have to go back later. 

Revise those words 

into more elegant phrases. 

And, with that thought, 

that mere wisp of judgment, 

that moment of logical awareness,

came a breeze 

that scattered the grains,

scrambled the words.

I folded myself into a tighter ball,

repeated the only words still clear,

searched for the source of the flow,

trying to bring it back.

Gone. 

 

Leaving only the faint tracings 

of a message that might have been.

Leaving me yearning 

for that whispered connection,

Leaving me grasping at smoke.