Faith?

One holds out inexplicably for just such things.
The forecast storm has come. The ground is
Soaked. A limb was ripped out of a tree. Some
Poets' group has sent me seven blobs of hackneyed
Verse to make me sorry I am breathing.
Then, the clouds grow thin and silver. All
The sky begins to glow, and one blob proves
To be a poem I am glad I read.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 71 times
Written on 2016-04-27 at 23:01

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