
Poetry
Distraction
Lit Up — April’s Prompt: Distraction
I can see it from here, the low slant of the sun’s fingers, grasping the glimmer of the frenzied activity of a million tiny wings inhabiting the haze above the mustard fields.
And I can also hear the bees, their collective hum hovering, rounding, ebbing, and sounding again, filling the absence of silence with their energy.
In my mind’s eye, I can see the dust clinging to my feet as I climb amidst the stubbled rise of eucalyptus trees hugging the spine of the hill, until I crest into an arching blue so deep that you could almost fall into it, if you allowed yourself to turn your face towards the vault of heaven.
Distraction.
I poise, pen in hand, my mind meandering the trail, waiting for the muse to whisper in my ear.
But all that I can hear is the sigh of the pines, dancing in the soft breath of spring, and the hummers screeching and diving, fighting for a nectary treat.
The world sings, rings, a cacophony of energy, a brewing stew of creativity.
I can’t resist her call.
Because, after all, isn’t that what a poem is about?
Distraction?
Or immersion?
Aren’t the words born there, in the soft belly of the earth? And in the pebbled rain against your cheeks? And the scream of the breeze whistling hard through the pines?
Free. I am free.
My feet are flying now through the mustard fields sprung taller than me. I’m immersed in the buzzing, humming glory of nature’s symphony.
For that is where she’s waited so patiently, the muse, her words trilling, thrilling, coursing through my veins, pouring ecstasy into my very being.
Distraction.
I’ll take it any day in which the muse decides it’s time to come out and play.