A thought sparks up in dim light, And wedges past several footstools To transform into a lingering piece. Toadstools bright with color Deck the narrow course That the thought pursues And impart their color to it. What started out as a little thought With some force, some gumption, Becomes, unknowingly, a poem With a meaning That was never intended it, But which it assumes cheerfully. The soul is the thought A little lost, meandering Surfacing through more powerful words.