The Elusive Word

[miyako73]

Nothing is as sullen as the late hour
Of the barely inked paper,
The pen hesitant to write,
And the foggy mind—
I cannot continue.

The study table with no clutter,
A slab of varnished grains,
A strength of mahogany,
Persists to hold my weight—
I cannot push.

The bulb of the shaded lamp
Gives me hints through its glow,
The complexity of diffusion,
The tired stillness of its light—
I cannot remember.

The cool wine in the ceramic cup,
Smooth in my throat,
Still sweet like bitter syrup,
Shows me its rosette—
I cannot find.

The paper clasps the dim image
Of my baffled eyes;
The pen remains docile
In the tremor of my hand—
I cannot finish.

I cannot think of the exact word
That describes the smile
Of the freed butterfly
Wondering if it is now spring—
Another piece crumpled.



(c) 2/7/2014