prose

i miss the long stretching summer days,
sitting by the water writing prose.

i miss writing prose.
i miss the thoughts that would stretch my arm span,
open like leaves, in the air floating about
from my hands across the sea.
i miss my couch and my coffee,
miss my kind relationships.
and i miss how it go away,
couldn't keep the days around, how they wouldn't stay
i can't much help when the seasons stay.
when they come, or when they leave.

i miss the thought of writing prose.