The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2009

Trying to Find the Words

Sometimes the words

do not come to me

They must be stuck in the 

frozen ground of Minnesota

waiting for a good thaw.

Or perhaps they have found themselves

and are just a little invisible like

dust motes.

They are elusive, like so many grains

of sand falling through fingers.

They could be wrapped in brown paper

packages piled high in a corner of the UPS

station on Adams Street.

Or stacked in freight cars docked

at an Oakland port, not being allowed

to leave because of a Red Alert.

I imagine some are embedded in the whorls

that comprise my fingerprints,

and some to be visiting the grave

of my mother who typed her poems

in the kitchen on an upright Underwood.

Too early in the morning

for words

I'll just have to start the day

without an explanation for why

no one is home

anymore.  I'm telling you

no one stays home forever.

Joyce Savre