As usual, another National Poetry Month
come and gone,
and I’ve written exactly nothing.
Not exactly nothing, I suppose:
a lot of work emails;
Corrective Actions for employees who
refuse to show up on time;
some Facebook posts and Tweets
displaying my amazement or frustration
with some aspect of human existence.
But nothing poetic. Nothing I could
say took something of reality and
lined it out in a way that others would
deem worthy of attention.
And that’s just it, too. Nothing worthy of attention.
I could have been more aware. Then
maybe the words would have come to me,
and also some way to breathe the breath of life
into marks on a page.
Could have, but wasn’t. And so the usual fears,
the worry that something deep within,
the old well-spring, has finally dried up. . . .
This time is different. By now
I’ve seen this enough to know
that wonder and words
They will return.