Like an old toothless prospector
A poet muddies her knees, strains her eyes for a glimmer.
And in the dusk of a long day of toil
A golden nugget is clutched.
Only to be revealed as a dead stone
in the tomorrow daylight.

I read other’s words
Sifting the silt from a page
Until the glint comes through
And my word lust retracts its claws
And the air around me rights itself
And I can go about my tasks
Strengthened by a sentence someone I will never meet
Chose to write down.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s