Words as art

I wander, wond’ring, silent as a cloud

That sits amongst a field of richest blue,

Of what to write, its sound when said aloud,

That might, for one, affect a brighter hue.

A theme reveals itself in subtle flow.

Then notions grow as crystals bright and keen,

And words fall onto page, as ice white snow.

I read what’s writ with eyes of hazel green.

I read and read again, with varied tone

In search of moments’ asking to be changed.

These pebbles grey re-touched and new seeds sown.

My hope, for golden buttercups, arranged.

And so a sonnet shaped in swiftest part.

Unique, perhaps. Its form is of my heart.