Charles Webb

Another winter in my head
Writing prose that won´t be read
Like birds that sing in empty lots
Or words on shelves that time forgot.

I think about a silver birch
In hopes a thought will come to perch
And vest itself in twigs and twine
But not a word has come to mind.

Miles away, I hear that sound;
A train of thought that´s southern bound.
A flock of geese fly overhead
Like words that leave before they´re said.

Some nights I dream of giving chase
To songs heard from a different place.
They echo once, then leave no trace.
Like words I´ve written and erased.

Outside the snow falls hard and deep,
And gnaws at birds in fitful sleep.
In feathered clumps, they pledge their hearts
Like words I cling to in the dark.