how my mind wanders

i have no inkling grown inside my brain
no bitter mist of knowledge wafting about
nor desperate fog of hope that keeps me sane
i have just notions. tricks of light on doubt
the weather turns from rain to sun, to wind
the thoughts from truth, to lies then back again
along the breach of memories skinned,
the scent of almost cracked, a finch and then
fourteen cold lines of reverie revealed.
my mind a whir of here and now and pine,
of kisses missed, and nearly-love congealed.
my fantasies, the trickle up my spine
of words. just words. the old dead language screeched
new love unbound, unreasoned yet not preached.