James A. Brightman: Poet and Writer

Stepping back from the wellspring, I see a mirror image reflected among droplets of water.

Me, standing still, slightly slumped, wondering if I was ever worth the sheer amount of time I had accumulated through aspiration.

I don’t impress my own hands enough on the bark of trees, clapping debris into the air to save my clothes from an extra wash.

No more fidgeting in place, considering pathways unflooded by inkblot dreams…I dream of simple something, a thoughtless life at ease.

By James A. Brightman