NO WORDS
Blank Page,
white and bare
as winter.
Scant Words,
black birds
on crusted snow.
Poor Hearts
beat wings
in bony cages.
No Song
to measure
what the heart can hold.
I owe much of this poem to Zelda Fitzgerald, who said, "No one, not even a poet, can measure how much the heart can hold." Pairing her quotation with the pictured quote from a Victorian poet might seem strange, but it makes perfect sense to me in light of the poem's subject. Thank you both, fair ladies.
