This Poem.

This Poem.

By P.S. Gifford

This poem has the potential of infinite possibilities.
There are an endless myriad of directions I could take it...
I might, if I so desire, wax on sweetly about the joys of a summer day,
and all the simplistic beauty that notion conjures.
Or, if I feel so inclined, I could write about
the infinite vast complexity contained within a single drop of rain.
You see the limitations are indeed boundless,
the only restraint is that of my imagination.
Yet, even that continues to surprise and delight me.
A perpetual flurry of new ideas continue to abound,
forever amazing and humbling my sense of me.
So what, you prompt, is this bit of writing about?
What point am I attempting, albeit clumsy, to make?
What, of all those countless choices did I feel an overwhelming desire to write about?
The answer is rather simple.
I chose to write about the most glorious thing in my world.
The most magical and inspiring thing I know…
The one constant in my life.
That perpetually brings reasoning to my madness,
soothes my screaming agonized mind,
and thusly fulfilling my very being.
I chose to write…
You understand

About you….