I Don’t Write Poetry

Grasping an idea is to

preserve a snowflake.

(it doesn’t last)

–

Inspiration

dries up

leaving my riverbed

seared and dry

–

Language slips by me

like quicksilver

or beads of rain

rolling down the car window

–

Images fade

leaving frustrated ghosts

in my mind’s eye

–

Wellsprings evaporate

clouds shift away

if there’s ever been a need for water

it’s today