For this poetess
after loosing my words
I check all the cupboards
in my inspiration stations
To find them barren
yawning
empty egg sacks,
producing
nothing viable
Except a few cobwebbed
disappointed moths,
that when released
vagabond away
Hands feel leaden,
the same loss
I felt when my child
outgrew them,
to find his own way
part of me is gone
They say patience
is a virtue,
but I am a sinner
Wicked faults
bedevil me
