A Poem I Should Have Written But Didn't
I walked a quiet road at dusk,
Where frost lay silver on the grass,
And in the stillness, words I sought
Some startled birds would rise and pass.
They brushed my cheek, they touched my hair,
Then vanished into fading blue;
I thought of you, old friend of snow,
Who spoke to silence, stern and true.
Your lines were fences in the mist,
Your rhymes were lanterns in the pines,
You caught the whispers I let go,
And bound them fast in perfect lines.
I should have written of the stars
That tumbled in the river dark,
Or of the leaf that dared to fall
Though winter had not yet begun.
But I was weary, closed my eyes,
And in the dark they fled from me,
Those tender syllables of night
That begged for immortality.
So here I stand, with empty hands,
The poet who has come too late;
Your voice endures where mine grew still—
I watched my lost words, fall from her pen.
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