East to West

 

The wind through my brain
rustles my thoughts like tall reeds,

Some, like weeds, are difficult to move
others simply flop over with the slightest breeze

It’s the stray thoughts that end up here

Those not so rooted as to hold their ground

Often times one will snap off

A fragment, a bit of an idea floats past,

That makes no sense, what do you mean?

 

I’m not sure.