THE BEWILDERED POET

Just sat there,
Neither happy nor sad;
No words came, all were spent.

So it seemed,

Can you listen, look,
yet not find one, a single one
lazily floating by?

Bewildered the poet sat.

She already told about the morning scent,
About whispers and hums,
about a sky, sheer blue;
In its new washed morning hue.

About troubling contrasts,
rivers of pain
as the beaten and dispossessed flowed;
In slow and defeated mass.

About the morning birds’ song,
the flower’s hue,
even Lines in the sand;
Did the words get washed away?

A tear spilled down the poet’s cheek.

c/ miriam ivarson