Melissa J. Bahle

Wiggling toes in a wicker chair, pen poised at my mouth
I stare at the wind-swept trees and wonder:
What do I have to say?
There was a time I raged,
and the poetry popped on the page like a punch to the eye.
There was a time I mourned,
and the words spilled out of me when the tears wouldn’t.
There was a time I questioned,
and the answers lurked in verses, page after page.
But now I sit in the Spring sunshine,
a honey-eyed dog at my side,
listening to breezes beg for kites and wings
and wondering if I have nothing more to say.