Step Inside

about writing poetry

When I sat to write woeful words, straying,
like alley cats, they brought the likes of
fish heads and drug in dead rats. It was then
I became an ostrich head, covered with sand.
These days I still believe in wrinkled muslin,
Unbleached and earthy, coarse and real, just
a few sour lemons, when the sugar box is bare.
Or storms have gathered and stuck on my ceiling.

But my favorite, are words of silver dust
perhaps a fairy's wand, a scoop to dip
in stars, to wave a sprinkled sparkling,
turning slippers into glistening glass.
Stork's white wings widespread, poems in bill,
magically delivering, dispersing them to
kindred souls of those, who might peruse
and long to step into that enchanted coach.