Waiting. Winter concise in tongue says,
“It will never happen. It can’t.”
Black birds chatty squeal
“She’s forgotten, she’s forgotten you” like
playground children in keep-away.
Wood floorboards beneath my spine reason
“Be content in memory, it is enough.”
I listen, and I wait.
Only the snowy owl, rare in visits, winks
“One day, one day. You’ll see.”
Anyone know the name of the poet I modeled this after?
I think I do, I think I do…
I’ll give you the initials of the poet… RB. And the name of the book “Morning Poems” 🙂