Why don't the words come
When they came so readily before?
Beauty, the stuff of poetry, is still here
The birds call and squabble at the feeders
The flowers bloom and go to seed
The wind whispers in the tree
And the fog lounges lazily on the distant ridge
As the sun creeps shyly through the eastern clouds.

The fence is down
Toppled by the bear in search of ripe, abundant plums and berries
the squirrel sits brazenly outside my window
Munching on the treat I knew he'd love.
So where are the words of contentment and delight?

Could it be that the world is upside down
That we have lost our foothold
And twirl in a vortex of imprecision, doubt, and fear
That everything is normal and so abnormal
That nature is a balm,
Helpful, but not sufficient?
Could it be that human contact is not enough
And touch is missing and essential

Could it be that we are not invincible, omnipotent, supreme
Nor a little lower than the angels
Meant to dominate the earth and all that dwells therein?
Could it be a time of reckoning and change and turmoil
Leading to new and better ways of thinking and being
Could it be that poetry will sing again?

Jean Munsee