Sometimes

Sometimes I want to write

To you about the sky,

The fields, branches and meadows,

So I lift my pen and try.

To trace the rivers back,

And swim along their shores.

To run away,

And dream of candle light and s’mores,

To race across the mountains,

To settle on plateaus,

To seek the ancient wonder,

Escape from friend and foes.

Yet here I lie,

And lay and rest,

And doubt, forever sure

That these words will be just that,

Never nothing more.