from dreamstime.com @ Google Images
Even the pencil is dull, no point writing today.
A word put down wrong has no means of escape
from the page; the eraser is worn down, flat out.
It hasn’t said a word all winter, sitting on the sill
in the snow-light waiting for anybody to need it -
to jot down a measurement, a paint color,
a phone number, anything, before it gets
swept off the sill for the red geraniums,
the new roman shades, and bowls of seashells.
This poem is the first assignment in
God only knows how long – the first creation
in the new cellar room with a view.
Poem in Free Verse
One Stop Poetry