The words have flown — I don’t know why.
Perhaps they’re nesting in the trees.
My pen is empty, ink is dry–
my thoughts are drifting on a breeze.
I will not worry, at my lack
of flowing verbiage for a poem.
They’ve fled before; they will be back.
Like me, they know the road to home.
—–
AUDIO FILE:
Pen's Ink 