Dry Ink
At times I sit between the trees
Pen and paper on my knees
I look for something new not old
I search for story never told
Between the branches squirrels leap
While near my feet critters creep
I wait to hear the special sound
Of story falling to the ground
Leaves they move and dance with rest
Sun moves too, towards the west
I look to see what letters form
A quiet tale or one of storm
Suns did set and birds would flock
Days they pass and months still clock
Then they came, words from the sky
But alas, alas, my quil was dry
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
