How many poems can be forged from a finite number of words?
Some questions are riddles. Forged from no-matter.
So, what’s for dinner? Now there’s a question worthy of poetry, invitation, necessity. Limited to the contents of the larder. Like poetry, a matter for play, for interpretation.
Southerly winds
ReplyDeleteastride the old rocking horse
Astounding delivery
of precious metals
Triangular goalposts
on the forgiving surface
Water rages down the mountain
The skin of spring is broken