Prospecting

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
Eye-sieving
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.

 

 

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