Semi-Daily Scribbles

I've been here before. The flashes of recognition in one's turn of phrase. The way the light beguiles when it washes over the porch. These are parlor games played by the ghosts who call my spirit home. Runoff and remnants produced by one too many times time and time again. Sediment and sentiment. A hillock rises in the spot where the idea was born. I speak the thought that forces its way past the barrier.

I cannot be forgotten!