Where Do Poems Come From

Part 2

by Rand Hall

like the last leaves
that have clung through winter
to float down on a chill wind,
words fall
on the barren page

dying embers
flickers of the once bright fire
spark to thought?

but seeds bursting from the pod
though carried by the breeze
rarely grow to rhyme.

it is not the warming fire
the whistle of the kettle
or the company of friends

the lonely wail
of a distant train
that draws the wandering line

nor does the rising
sun inspire
words of living color
but the darkest hour
of night

it is the ends
that force the heart
to write.

Journal, Volume 2 Issue 9