If I was granted a wish,
it would be a visit with the wild ones,
a coyote, perhaps, or a fox,
or - especially - a black wolf, smiling
his brown-eyed smile.
I would tell him how many poems
I have written for him,
I would pick a bouquet of weeds
and wildflowers, to take home
in his memory.
A dreaming friend said he appeared
in her last dream. When she told him
I miss him, he threw back his head
and howled his lonely howl.
It seems a poet always winds up
singing the blues in her poem.
Why is it that
art is so often sad?
art is so often sad?
This tapped itself out from Shay's Word List prompt. I used eight of the words.
