Poets Corner


Walk the earth, search the barren field
For words.
Seeds of winter wheat;
Seeds turned old when all’s been said.
Truth be told
Nothing’s new beneath the freezing sun.
Still, voices call across the canyon
And back into the blue.
Echoes fade to a pluck on the sleeve.
Roses answer to the man,
And blossom clings to drab and rambling vine.
Come old and mundane!
The vast and fertile plain.
Alive in faded print
In dusty cover stacks,
Lost to distraction.
Then out from the blue
And back into fresh ink;
Verse abide.
No credits due;
Old is new.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *