My Poem for the week

The hopper lies empty on the coffee grinder.

Beans'  rich scent linger only as a hint

 from the dried residue left in my cup.

An empty pill bottle sits on the windowsill.

Dried geraniums stand like sentinels

one  on each side of the porch stairs.

Brown grasses collapse on the field beyond the window.

I hunt for shoots of green ideas

 among dry hollow stems of forgotten stanzas.

Like a cat holds on to a ledge,

I hold on to watercolor.

With gratitude and only in my mind,

 I trace the shape, plan the design, mix the paint.

 That joy and mystery of color, line, and shadow

 ignites a spark to a hidden dry tinder of

words piled in a corner of my mind.

I begin to write again.