Today’s poem’s not a poem at all.
Seems the flow has hit the wall.
The change in season’s what I suspect.
A change in me I don’t detect.
~
The blues behind, green’s on its way,
what happens next I can’t say.
Sometime a stick of wood is just that.
Or it can start a fire or built a habitat.
~
And with each box we’ve many strikes.
Some were used when we were tykes.
The rest we save for those rainy days,
when again they’ll guide our ways.
~
Jumbled metaphors run through my mind.
A start or end I can not find.
Perhaps now stopping is best.
It’s getting late, I need some rest.

~*~
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