hours drip slowly
onto a taunting empty page
the soul’s depictions brushed simply

a palette of whispered words
dry as if it were thoughts painted
onto a tightly stretched canvas

it's been said so many times before
                   similes,...
     form clots at the tip of the quill
                    words,...
finally surrendering to gravity’s flow
as the ink scribes the paltry ruminations;
flooding the same stifled notions
another way into another moment

metaphorical sleights of hand
incarnate onto the absolving
       sheet of parchment;
traces of past now’s ensconced
       in considered words

        miles of silent reverie,
                     spun,...
        like a spider reprocessing,
        carefully savoring
        each fine silk thread of web,

        spinning the womb of time...

© H.A.  Rivers 2012 … All Rights Reserved

A straw man hanging on a stick, blowing ragged in the wind. A straw hat and torn jeans with a shirt full of dried grass. A smile painted on your face with buttons for eyes, not much to look at it would seem. You sit idly and watch the corn grow, hopefully scaring away a few old crows. As much as many might scorn you, you are good at one thing. When I want to talk you always listen and never ever complain. So I think of you often as the winter comes and you hang around in the cold and the snow. When I feel really lonely and need someone to listen, I know just where to go.