For this poem there wasn't so much of the typical process of trying to write, then realizing that I wasn't saying what I meant, and trying again. Basically, this one went from observation to page in a few minutes. That doesn't happen often, but when it does it's a "unique" experience, for lack of a better word. It's like you were supposed to write what you wrote. You don't feel so much like you're writing a poem. It's more like you're just talking, just breathing, just...being. It feels natural, is what I'm trying to say. But enough of this intro. Here's the poem.
The breeze ran on
Perpetually
Behind the bright red car,
And as he passed, the
Fresh-mown grass and
New-fallen leaves
Leapt up and
Shouted out
“Hurrah!”
Then dropped again
To whisper among
Themselves.
For was he not a fool
Who chased forever
One who fled
Perpetually
From his embrace?
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