The Lost Idea

So inconsistent in its mood

Its natural state is to elude

It slips away like hoary mist

Evading eager, grasping fists

And only shines when glanced upon

A second look and it is gone

Amused by our frustration it

Across our brains will often flit

Dancing

on the edge of

sound and sight

To hover by our left ear

. . . or our right.