Facing East

I suppose
I can write about the
velveteen silhouette of hills at dusk
and struggling yellow lights
sprinkled in the valley.
I can write about the sparrows
coming home
from all over the city
to roost in the navel
of its last remaining
patches of forestry.
In turn, the bats come out
from slumber searching fruit
or whatever they may scavenge.

I suppose
I can write about the
dark blue sky with tangerine flashes
and how the clouds pass by
like milk in a coffee cup.
And how, on cloudless nights,
there seem to be
twice more stars
sprinkled
in great admiration
of a much bigger moon.
To impress, they form
constellations I don’t know of
or have now forgotten

My muse is hidden somewhere east
And my soul decided to join her
If not reason, bless me with rhyme
Without my muse I couldn’t write
Without my soul I find nothing to write about
My words have no spine
My poetry is an unborn child.

Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes