Poetry and the Poet
In a poem a river writes its story
birds scribble sky-pinned verse
fireflies enlighten and gardens—
those basking bards—turn sunshine
into rooted odes. Alas, the poet—
pen-bearing Sisyphus— bemoans
her lack of muse, climbs—but why?
The finding lies at fingers’ tips.
7 thoughts on "Poetry and the Poet"
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Yes! Sometimes the trick is just to start moving the pen…
This one hits home: How can I write if I have nothing to say?
Well said, and thank you, Nancy.
Wonderfully written!
“pen-bearing Sisyphus” – I can’t stop marveling (and laughing) at this! Exactly right, Nancy! Love this poem!
“In a poem a river writes its story.” Love this.
Nancy, the title invites me on a lyrical journey of wonder, culminating with: “The finding lies at fingers’ tips.” Thank you
Shew!x5 “In a poem a river writes its story”