Friday Poem: To The Sun

It’s been a while since I wrote this poem, a paean to lack of solitude and writer’s block,  but it’s time to write a poem for the annual Christmas card, and…

Unruly Sun
I’m not making my own days
These days
They happen
And then
Slip through my fingers
Like mist, like blood, like tears
Slip and are gone

Unruly Sun
The darkness gathers
Solid and alone
I touch you
And  I cannot reach you

Unruly Sun
I am borrowing from some poets
And weaving
My own song

There’s not much poetry these days
Come to my window
Unruly Sun
No one appreciates the songs
I make

Not even me.


Can you pick any of the poets I have borrowed from? Do you sometimes borrow, when the well seems too dry?

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