Sundays are for Writing

Beautiful Sunday afternoon
Sun shining with not a cloud in the sky
Birds chirping, Ravens cawing
Breeze rustling the leaves
Shadows cast over the grass
as the trees wave their arms over the dreamy poet

Sitting in grass on the hill
Notebook and pen in hand
staring at everything and nothing
wondering what to write

An idea, a word really- comes to mind
its written down and no sooner than the pen
leaves the paper the ideas begin to flow
like a waterfall after a spring rain

Suddenly the pen cannot move fast enough
over the pages of the journal
One Word
Thats all it took to open the flood gates
to begin the creative process

There are so many words…………

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