Pretty Poems Are Gone
The pretty poems are gone
flown from their nest
all hatched and feathered
and who knows where now?
Long gone and ding dong goes
the church bell across my patio
with two stray cats who call
this home, humble and proud.
My bonsai plants outgrew
their containers, stilts to the sun.
Still, I am here, growing fat
hurrying along my morning hope.
Worry nests in every moment;
I can’t rake in the wind
why sit without my sun?
Pretty poems have flown.
1 comment:
Wistful.
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