Thoughts in Transiton
A cool gust brushes my face as I pace
Along The River Medlock’s canal,
Canada geese resting on the bank’s side,
So, this is where you flock at night.
I’ve looked up into the midnight sky,
No moonlit flowery image to report,
Just a thought. My poems have not
Made me famous yet. My bet is that
I have not yet surrendered.
Unrestrained, I’ve found my pen again,
Like a dove sent out to a desolate plane,
Returning with a purple prickly thistle.