A year ago my poet’s pen was sharp,
but now my muse, it seems, hides far away.
I wish for oboe music and the harp,
get lost, instead, inside the piles of hay.
I search high, low, upon the poet’s plain,
find only nuggets here and there, no tray
resulting in a gold rush. Where’s the rain
I could dash into, feel refreshment? Words
escape the confines of my mind and brain
like hummingbirds or robins, little birds
that wing away. I wish for every sound
that make a poem, even thunderous herds.
But I am stuck in silence, in the ground
where words take time to grow and generate.
I wait for when my poem will abound.