In the morning, it hits them,
a mountain of words falling down a mountain,
then a stone,
then a boulder,
tumbling to the ground & bouncing on a page.
But for me, I get my poems by running in a field.
Arms waving mad,
smacking words like flies.
I just relax,
CB5-25-19 (pastel & poem by Charles Braddy 2018, 2019)