For the dverse prompt.
There is the desk and the words
that clip clop, a trotting horse
on a paper trail of stories and I seated,
creator or transmitter, who knows?
Wrapped in silence and the swaying of trees,
I pour out the trop-plein of images, sailboats into
green and blue seas beyond the window
~lapping shores where a hundred birds call~
is where I walk, leaving footprints
for those who choose to look,
a mother with a hundred worries muttering,
yet catching clouds and stars,
drifting where the wind blows,
and at her heels a tall dog, a cat sometimes,
and in her head, hands, heart, blood,
the one who understands it all, always.