The difficulty of a poem
is never the search
for the word
that describes
the morning light
turning metallic green
in the feathers
of a sunbird as it
eats its breakfast
in the long grass
beside glossy
garlands of dew.
The difficulty
is the stopping,
mustering the
cold-hearted resolve
to bring the poem
to a full stop
as the sunbird
leans its curved beak
into the dirt,
seducing you
with the possibility
of an anthology.
Thought about writing an anthology many-a-time. I have wisely decided that I have not the skills nor the experience under my belt just yet.
Poems are challenging, definitely.
HUGE SMILE on my face while reading this one. I love it.
Thanks, my kindred poet.