Out the lighted window
in the murmuring trees of night

whispered voices call up an old poem
writing slowly
drawing in the words and breathing them out
in a timeless – timefree - meter

I sit at my desk, listening to the ancient voices,
feel the cool syllables
the sweetdarkheavy scent of them
flirting dangerously with my nose.

I lay my pen down, then think better
and lock it away in the desk

This is a poem I cannot write.

The words are too big and dark

They would absorb my heart

And I would cease to be, my pen clattering to the floor.

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