Poetry Group

I arrive early for the meeting. Row upon row of chairs face forward, like a flock of sheep, nose to tail, waiting for a shepherd. My grandmother raised sheep, cows, pigs, geese, and children. Grandpa buckled under tuburcolosis, leaving her seven kids to raise. "Waste not, want not," served well as a mantra over rugged paths, and pastured her fleecy days. With no aid from government, church, neighbor, or relative, she prevailed where others failed, sharing the bounty garnered from those wooly mammals of endless grazing. As these empty chairs fill, what shepherd will lead us into the fold of words; power words for change, wisdom words for growth, magic words for dreams, with teeth piercing to the core, strong jaws for chewing, and sensitive tongue to taste those other words floating around these chairs of tail-wagging writers?