To the Wind

I threw it off the cliff
and watched it curl on an updraft
leaving me yet again
clinging to the safe side

Two years ago I sat alone
in a coffee shop in NoHo
dreaming about writing,
scratching out the screenplay

Like etching a straight pin
across the surface of a balloon,
anticipation and ideas began clawing
my upper palette forcing me to mouth

Story lines and characters
rich as fabled producers in fur coats
lining the boulevards and quoting
the very lines of my mind

Two thousand keystrokes each hour
page after page of internal creating
mustered my courage until the wind’s lift
caught the edge of resolve

And that cautionary urge returned
as the hour to depart approached
and the muse of my soul retreated
as I dared to cast you in that film

And still the pages sit in a binder
On top of old jeans and covered
in layers of insecure dust
waiting for the wind to lift them up

Bring on the storm clouds, my friend.
I’m ready to throw you off again.

The wind blows red and the fall leaves break from their branches and dance downward toward the river’s disturbed surface.

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