My Response

These hands have grown old,
Having done nothing worthwhile,
But write loveless poetry.

My eyes grow weary,
Having shed so many tears,
You’re hardly worth the pity.

My heart is heavy,
Having borne so many hurts,
It’s now a knot of old scars.

Then rejoice, old friends,
Winter is a time for rest,
A brief relief from the pain.


2 thoughts on “My Response

    1. I think that’s one of the struggles of a poet-writer – the lack of physicality in our product sometimes makes us feel like fog-makers or mist-weavers. There but for a moment until a strong breeze or hot day dissolves all our work away.

      Liked by 2 people

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s