WRITER'S STOCK

Like my previous two posts, this rhyming poem is taken from the stock of lost verses that I recently rediscovered.

SUNRISE

The unmarked page is like a beach
that a writer walks at first light,
finding no footprints there.

I picture you at sunrise, each
slim page a small bird taking flight,
rising in soundless air.

Waking, I find a path inshore,
at dawn, where nothing man-made mars
clear, endless emptiness,

then, moving forward, set my score
of verses down: poems like soft-maned stars
in lightning harnesses.

In silent endlessness we meet,
wings skimming over fields of words
in a white country, fair,

and, like familiars, greet
each other easily, as do birds,
for it is peaceful there.