just sit down and write it out they say and i note that i am not alone

as i finish reading the works of an old writer in APR

one who is writing about

losing his words too while he worries that his mind may

soon be next to follow

i read his small case poems, yet

cringe as i note his herb caen dot dot dot style only to observe while genuflecting to his knack

for elderly genius and note that its not my own private rocky road to travel that has

immersed me in this vat of writer goo; sticky, weblike strands reach across to foreign lands and we

all struggle in its thick murky darkness and watch, helpless as it cuts us all, straight to the bone

trapped, mired in each cell, we all watch, fascinated at the blood-letting that is

shared as a small gift of relief when we become wordless…

here we are in empty rooms of quiet houses

gazing out the same windows at the leaves falling and the seasons shifting

while we all ask the same small favor of the elusive muse who keeps us waiting

lonely at our doors, wondering if solitaire is a better excuse than actually crafting a line

that won’t be called ‘bad poetry

but rather, a line worth reading, just one that makes an emotion creep up and tickle

us to tears, to laughter, to thought or a simple nod of our weary heads

or a fleeting reminder of something we once experienced

as aging, as longing to set down in shadows or calm blue waters…

again, we wait, noting the chill in the autumn air

noting the shape of one particular leaf taking its solo flight without its compadres…

as it moves toward the earth to join with the others on this hardened summertime ground

lying below as i gaze out this window

it disturbs nothing, demanding no truth or justice in its flight

judged by no one in its descent…

saluting the end of its time

i bend to bow low and honor the muse-less poet

as we all drift, searching out our words

falling without them to the earth below

in us all