Poet Of The River

Poet Of The River Poems

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In The Mind Of A Poet

As hours tick by and time passes
I find myself mindlessly fumbling through my phone.I almost see your reflection in my glasses
And turn, but you are not there, I am alone, standing still, not going anywhere.
I'm confused, a fog spreading through my mind. Looking down to my calloused hands I think back to what I used to have. And suddenly realize that empty hands, are the best hands. Always open and never closed to anyone. I remove my glasses from my face and pull my dusty shirt forward. Cleaning the delicate pieces I rely so strongly on and begin to think.

I walk over to the dusty windowsill and look out at the world before me.the clouds dot the sky like milk droplets on ice swirling about and going were ever the wind takes them. A redbird flying about restlessly dives down and finds comfort with others under a big cypress tree.
Returning to my desk I pick up my quill and begin to write.
Years pass, and eventually a young boy stumbles into the old house. Picking up an old picture frame he squints his eyes and removes the dust. Athe image of an middle aged man comes into focus, but most of the picture seems to have been destroyed years ago by a curious mouse. He sees a envelope on the desk in the corner and wanders forward, but not because he is curious, but because he must. Every fiber calls him to the letter. He flips it over and reveals the insignia of a medieval sword. Opening the letter a soft gust of wind rushes from within. Pulling out the paper he reads: hands are a tool and a gift to be had. Stand with them open and youll never be sad. Welcome new opportunity and bless new adventures, and never live with closed hands.
He looked in a daze to the bottom of the page to find who had written such fame. To his surprise confusion lies at the presence of his personal. Name.

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