Here I am, writing this poemWhen hundreds of other things Scream out for my attention

As Autumn's bluster Rustles the treetops Waving red, orange and gold Here I am, writing this poem

The hairs on the back Of my neck rise in the air, electric Sending shivers Never have I felt more alive, And it feels like this every time

When the words are right They flow on Like some lazy river Sourced in a land faraway That just never runs dry

Here I am, writing this poem And in a hundred years from now Some stranger, yet to be born, will Read these words and share the Same moment, will be intrigued But not know why

They'll have hundreds Of other things Screaming out for their attention But there they'll be, Reading this poem.

~ Eric Vance Walton ~