by jim turner » Fri Dec 31, 2010 9:36 pm
Rainstorms scratch at his window,
feeling for cracks–
the thinnest wide enough
One will find a way.
Why does he bother,
on his notebook’s final page,
with vowels, verbs, rhymes?
His yellow pencil’s dulled stub,
too short to sharpen one more time.
Did he not see the flame
of his last candle tremble and fail?
Feel the stinging, tendriled wraith
of smoke searching in darkness?
Listen! In the shadows
still he whispers of visions
behind his shuttered eyes.
Will they never pass, those storms,
never cease, that rain, falling
on the flooded river of his words?
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