Waiting patiently for an influx of ideas and images
never takes long.
They always seem to be hanging on the tip of my pen
when it first touches the paper.
No longer hesitant or forlorn, I write continuously
whatever my mind begins to hear and see.
Touching lightly, the chords of my being, all of life
jumps from my soul, holding on to a parachute,
drifting with the flow wherever it will lead in any
given moment.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem