I tell her these things when I come home

So much
Has been taken for the quest of something original

Time squeezes to something interesting
Something original

I am carried away

I look out this glass window
Seeing the sea

Farther blue nearer me is brownish
The river is flooded the rain poured wildly in the mountain

A blue green car passes by below
A woman with a basket of something
(I cannot see clearly)
Holds her boy like a twig of a tree

The wind must be blowing hard
There could be typhoon

I see these happening, I am from here. I live here.

I tell her these things when I come home

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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