Waiting to Fly

Today I have no poetry inside me.
I am dry and crackly
like a leaf in November,
dead inside,
a memory of what I was.

Stripped even of my last deathly colors
I lie in the snow,
waiting for the thaw and wind
to send me flying
to far away places.

About this poem

This is one of those “I don’t feel like writing” poems. But you do it any way.

The picture was taken yesterday on my back porch steps. It’s worth clicking on for  large view.

Tom