An unsung song shimmering on the air  

A tinkling just outside of hearing  

Tinged with urgency or despair. 

It comes on the wind, a gentle whisper

Or a jumble of lines storming through 

At times soft sidestep canter 

Or full blown verse hullabaloo  

It sweeps in, a rush, a flood

An earthquake of urgent matter; 

Or hangs about like a nagging stutter,

A relentless gnawing in my blood. 

Words cluster like tumble weeds

Around an emotional whirlwind of seeds

Sprouting, prodding, kicking to get out

And unburden this wrung-out heart 

It fans out a melody – the brush of a wing,

or some nebula, cloudy from the start

Spells out dull hours of phrasing 

Where the mind gets a good sorting out.