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Poem

She remembers the shimmer
of one Sunday morning
The sun had grown dimmer
on the overcast seas
The color of yellow,
spread long amber fingers
And the sycamore trees 
cast strange somber shadows.

There was a threat in the sky
and the faint sound of thunder
Then a flash in the hills, in the blink of an eye,
Clouds gathered so quickly on the hillside, nearby

They rudely unlatched all the floodgates within
When a minute had passed light shined once again
and a radiant sun spread like gold end to end

At the old oak table, she sat in the kitchen
Staring at paper, with a pen in her hand
Searching for muse and the words for a poem,
seeking the magic, to paint with a pen
Hoping for gold in the late summer's bend 

While hearing the tapping of rain and the plunder
And as quickly as storms, come out of nowhere,
a floodgate of verses resounded  like the thunder 
and flashes of lightning struck lines here and there.

Pouring on paper, like rivulets on windows
a floodgate unleashed, were the words in a row
Painting a river, a poem she could own
and words that would capture the late summer storm

___________________________________________________________
Contest: "Titles"  Required using titles of our first 5 poems.
9/17/15

(Titles of my first five poems:)
The Old Oak Table 
Dimmer
Yellow 
Sunday Morning 
Unlatched 
			
Entered again: 	'Second Chance for the Unloved Poem' Contest
Sponsor: Jesse Rowe

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