Fountain of Youth

by W awww awwww

All children dance a masterpiece.
They set pen to wind with laughter—
entwine endless verse
around moments in the way
they move, and listen, and love.
If only I could capture
a child in words, life itself.

I am no longer a poet,
though I read poetry.
I feel poetry.

I scratch what I can in ink
as a way to draw nearer
those poets who call
into my barren places,
as deep cries unto deep—
where remnants are alive, still,
and speak, not in words
but stirrings.

In storm pools of words,
I seek relief from drought
and wait for rain to seep.
The weight of truth pounds
scorched cliffs.
Winter is yet coming—
when water reveals power
over lifeless rock.

I read poetry.
Yes, I need poetry.
I will again, soon—
live poetry.

 

2 Comments to “Fountain of Youth”

  1. Like children we are unconscious of our own grace; they jump and fall and rise to jump again unaware of observation, of criticism, of evaluation. Like poetry they simple are . . . Can we be content with that? In our old age we return to our childhood unashamed, unself`conscious; and at night pray ‘Now I lay me down to sleep . . .’ And so we do . . . So we are . . . Thanks for triggering so many thoughts! Keep writing . . .

    • You are welcome. Yesterday, and again this evening, we have four generations of family together in one place–over thirty of us in all, we span all seasons of life. A good thought you have for us to remember. Thank you.

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