a pen nearby
the poet paces window to door
and back again
finally he sits and writes a word
any word, he doesn't care
a word that can begin a sentence
even a phrase would do
he stares unseeing past the glass
into the mirror of his mind
outside
a red bird hops from branch to branch
a cat prowling the snow
watches the bird
and tries to climb the tree
ice on the bark makes the cat slide
so he watches the red bird dance
where no red bird should be
not in this season
is there a metaphor here?
a parable? a fable?
the music for a dance of words?
we'll never know
the poet paces
sure that his poem begins in his mind
the page lies empty on his desk
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