These bouts of inspiration are always
I might as well call them my January Friend.
They move me to write
the way that February holidays
move me to mark the halls
with boughs of roses.
Some poems hit hard, percussive,
like marches in the summer heat,
made complete with chili dogs
and a Prilosec.
Some poems flow easily onto the page
and may resemble the dances of june bugs
Right now, I’m inspired by the great texts
that tower around me at the local bookstore.
There’s “No One Belongs Here More Than You”
by Miranda July
and a religious history anthology about Augustus Caesar.
Sometimes I forget to appreciate the power
of words bound between hard covers,
taking a store such as this and a journal to write in
Except timber, like money,
does not grow on trees.
No, it gives all of itself
and sheds love, passed from tree-huggers,
to die for the author’s art.
When October brings its
candy apple scent to cool air,
remember the sacrifice of our golden-leaf friends,
slain like fire-breathers in children’s story books.
But it doesn’t take a dragon’s breath,
only a novice ember,
to erase the legacies of our history
and condemn us to lonely cold Decembers
with an empty hearth
and nothing to read.
Written for Sunday Scribblings (#216)