words fall as so many leaves
stripped from the trees by the careless fingers
of the east wind.
they drift along the lanes of my mind
gather in great heaps
ready for the bagging of conversation
or the burning onto paper with pen or pencil.
and yet they remain
scattered in heaps - unspoke - unwrit
to be kicked and scattered again
by whim or passion's unruly progeny
until, ground down beyond recognition,
the what of them is gone
leaving only an
"i was thinking..."