Monday, December 11, 2006
poem faucetMy words fall down against the ground, to drop;
A noiseless trickle from a faucet turned
To face a side away, to leak a burned
Reminder, Inspiration’s darkest flop.
And so, a tree of life’s great living rhyme
Cannot yet sprout and turn a leaf to find
The sun which shines with hope, so bright and kind;
No living rays can help in their due time.
Yet turn the knob to move my frame of mind
And vastly arid lands will not be found
As trickle turns to ebb and flow, to drown
The former dams of rot, unearth and find
A plot on which I run on solid ground –
On which I free my verse.
©me2006