Freewrite

I did an exercise I'll write more about later. Then I let it simmer in my head for a few minutes before unleashing this little stream of consciously metered, somewhat slant-rhymed...stuff.

the pilgrim tends his paper boat
in robes once saffron, then once white
he cocks his craft into a hat
and bends his head for waterflight
among the lilies and the weeds
he blunders, sodden as a cloud,
until he must engage his mind
and ribbony streams shake from his head
and what is paper when it’s wet
and what’s a boat upon the heath
and what’s a pilgrim when he’s still
and robes that can’t hide what’s beneath
and what is saffron when it’s white
or white when colors blur, suffuse
an accidental rainbow raise
to strike its wonder until night

and thus he has become the rain
folding his dreams into a cloud
and shaking the page onto the land
and washing wild violets onto the road