“This is a series of short poems I will write over time”
poetry is autumns tree
with her crown of auburn and gold.
listen as the soft wind weaves
through her hair
and her whispering story is told.
poetry is the ailing father,
brother, uncle, son.
his shrinking form re-tuning the strings
of our hearts
as we sit and wonder what could be done.
poetry is paint on the brush
and the molding of wet clay.
anticipating something new as we
hold our breath
and create beauty in our own way.
poetry is a dry throat
and the furious thirst it brings.
tilt back the cup of expression
and drink deep
so restored voice can finally sing.