This morning, my imagination a bit spent, arid, dry, I had little to say, but…
Having Nothing, in Particular, to Write About
No cherub or seraph is humming its wings
over the garden where the rose bush
has begun to embrace April’s warmth
nor can I hear a dragon voice
thundering from beyond the hills,
its wings smiting the air
as Thor’s hammer smites his foe.
Athena, shimmering, draped in white,
hasn’t called for tea in weeks
and all the maidens locked
in tall towers have been rescued.
Therefore, I’ve only this cup of coffee,
its warmth softly cupped in my hand,
the air spicing my lungs with hints
of pine, and a cat, as white as a cloud,
garnished with orange spots,
skillfully weaving its path
through a tangle of forsythia
that has, today, decided to bloom.