I am afraid of desolate dark woods
Where we have no words
Poets without muse.
In thistle thicket budding
From the Wild Rose that Grows in Winter.
Outside my protected plot
Thriving in expert isolationist landscapes,
Hanging from bare honeysuckle branches.
Riotous and greedy
Star-lings, grackles, blue Js, Mock-ing birds,
Searching for sanctuary in my treeless bloc.
Now feeding on black oil.
and sunflower seeds
I want quiet here, away from word woods,
Without the noise of thesaurus, lexicon, and glossary
I want to drink at the first font
To quench thirst from frost forming at my temples
But I am at a loss for Words
Photo credit to Brianna Sargent