Beads of wet
on grey wooden slats
reveal smooth foot prints
within pools of dew.
Purple veined hand
tames breeze ruffled pages,
etches black ink phrases
between blue lines.
Noon sun directly overhead
deck floor dry, tracks gone
forehead drenched
in streams of sweat.
Words flounder,
pen drags letters
as ideas dry up
like low tide sand.
lillian the home poet 
Ah, writing – is as finicky as the tides and the beach it pulls to and fro…
This is quite perfect
am:)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Kind kind words for this little ditty….:)
LikeLike
🙂
LikeLike