On an evening walk the other day,
I found a sack of words.
It’s old, very old,
made of hemp and tied with cord.

There was no one about,
no clue as to its owner.
So I took the sack of words
and made my way home
as dusk turned to darkest night.

Once home,
I tipped the sack out onto the table
and a jumble of disjointed ideas cascaded across
its surface …

Then questions formed:
who did the sack belong to?
how did the sack become lost?
Or was it placed in my path for me to find?

I then thought of its previous owner …
If the sack of words were truly lost,
has its owner become mute,
unable to ask for help in finding the lost sack?
I felt sorry for them
and contemplated what I should do with these words …

I could write a heartfelt verse about regret,
or another about lost loves.
Maybe I should use the words
to tell my story?
But no one would want to read that.
Perhaps telling another’s story
would be better served by my discovery?
I could retrace my from steps that evening walk
and look for its owner,
stumbling about in dusk’s half light,
lost for words?

For now,
the words remain just a jumble of disjointed ideas
scattered on my table
waiting for me to decide.

©  2025