Sometimes I think in poetry. Don’t know what this is, exactly, but it’s been floating around in my brain. Thought I’d share. (I found the picture after the writing part, but it’s quite appropriate, I’d say…)

She stands, knees bent, her cheek to the sky.
Such sounds around her, twisting and writhing in the morning bright,
a dappled, jeweled splendor.
To touch the center of that power, to know the mystery that
beats beneath her chest–such ecstasy and agony–
is to mark the slippery difference between peace of mind
and madness,
and forget it.
Inspire, expire; and curling fronds of power lift, rise, and fall.
She opens her eyes.
She sees.