Poetry wants a day off
Spring wind is chill today.
Words refuse to come out to play.
There seems to be nothing left to say.
It must be Monday.
The clock keeps ticking—no delay
The days creep on in their rigid array.
I will send my muse a fresh bouquet
for a better poem on Tuesday.
© 2016 by Violet Nesdoly (All rights reserved)
(Photo courtesy Pixabay.com)