Poet, interrupted

As I write my poem,
As I probe my consciousness for its buried longings,
As I meditate on words and phrases,
As I prepare to compose,
And set my fingers to the keys,
The power goes out.
Such is life.

We relocate to the library;
Enter to a scented breeze of pine wood and paper.
Adorned with maple leaves and festive d├ęcor.
My shoes scuff the carpet as I reminisce on the days of my youth,
Rummaging through shelves holding gems with worn covers and stained, wrinkled pages.
It is here, among the wood smell and the carpet burn and the promise of infinite universes,
That I first fell in love with writing.
I inhale the nostalgic smells
And resume.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *