The Poet Is Told To Fill Up More Pages by Mary Oliver
But, where are the words?
Not in my pocket.
Not in the refrigerator.
Not in my savings account.
So I sit, harassed, with my notebook.
It's a joke, really, and not a good one.
For fun I try a few commands myself.
I say to the rain, stop raining.
I say to the sun, that isn't anywhere nearby,
Come back, and come fast.
Nothing happens.
So this is all I can give you.
not being the maker of what I do.
but only the one that holds the pencil.
Abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.
Make of it what you will.
