The first cold letters, alone on the page. <br />A quick pencil found them, <br />and the lively and beautiful syllables blossomed. <br />The pale book felt the pencil <br />as the terrifying, hot words entered. <br />The lines grew, living and sensitive, <br />gleaming as never before, <br />and I knew the unheard lines! <br /> <br />First, a tiny and unselfconscious sound. <br />A noun struggled to appear among overpowering words. <br />A strong, golden adjective ran out, <br />a short, fragrant adjective, beautiful in the early spring. <br />A young verb grew among tiny blue conjunctions, <br />and a fortuitous adverb understood, instinctively. <br /> <br />The first sentence dreamed of trees, and a sad cloud. <br />It dreamed a grey rain, <br />and the tall trees felt the rain. <br />There was a first and unknown river, <br />imagined, inconsequential, like snow in summer. <br />A red bird glided beyond reach, <br />as if it had never happened. <br />The soft sounds fitted the lines, <br />and the quick bird cried, <br />Remember the short rain! <br />Remember the sad poem!<br /><br />Paul Hansford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/inconsequential-syllables/
