DRY HEAT

My flowery words now dry and harden,
Poem and prose gone from my garden,
The worst of times has passed and left,
My tongue is thick—no longer deft.

Where are the words my tortured soul
Had found within to make me whole?
My well is empty, dry and sere,
She whom I loved no longer near.

And yet the sun comes up as new,
And on this day the sky's still blue,
And willy-nilly all is fine
The world like wondrous aged wine.

So if my words are buried deep,
I still must eat and still must sleep,
And still must work for daily bread,
Both wordless quick and walking dead.

There is that ever rising sun!
My work's not o'er—barely begun,
And reason whispers in my ear
That life is good and life is dear.

So I will offer sweet goodbyes,
And secret smiles and tender sighs,
To look in wonder where we've been
And start my life all over again.

© Phil Hodgkins, 2002

Guest Book