Song

I woke up thinking of a song that I could write. A song to pull the dream up from my night. All day I felt so light, and wild colour bled along the road, in the fields along the fences as we drove along. I was thinking of my song. And what I'd place inside, if I could bury light, in something I could write. Would it explain to you this white moon, hanging high above the motel room? The last gasp of longing that I stretch my hand towards, as though to steal from the moment some souvenir of words. I woke up thinking of a song that I could write.