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?