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Pale yellow light flickers from a
silver stick perched in iron.
The holder, antique, with a base
meant for carrying up stairs in
deep winter’s night

I pray for guidance — for the
words to return to my veins
flowing like iron to nourish
my spirit, the depths of my
essence — every day.

Life seems too mundane
for poetry and the innumerable
stars which are scattered outside
my apartment in the city
far from the ocean.

Here in the Midwest days
are boring, filled with trivial
transactions of cash and charge
selling wardrobes to the wealthy
and rude.

I dream of a life filled with
steeping tea and notebook
pages scribbled and scratched
like cat trees in my lap

I dream of the ocean, of
waves against sandy shores
my love’s hand in mine as
we walk the beach
shells under foot.

For now, I sit. In silence
passing cars a distant rumble
window fan my soundtrack
and wait: quiet, words
returning like ants.

Copyright Sara Blackthorne, 2010
All rights reserved