• This is my poem.
    An empty home.
    A place where nothing is conceived,
    no creativity released.

    This is my poem,
    A blank page of loose-leaf paper,
    on which a couple of words are plopped down
    like a spring drizzle.

    But nature’s law runs backwards
    and now those words are covered
    by the frost of autumn.

    I forgot to cover those sparse words up,
    give them fertilizer and let them grow,
    and they died
    right in front of my face.