What happens to the poet
who runs out of lines?
What happens to the sage
who has lost her soul?
What happens to the teacher
who has nothing left to give?

The river is dry.
The bed is cracked.
Lifeless.
Dead.

No green is there
among the bones
sun-bleached in dust.

Feels like no drop will fall
across these questions to
disrupt this arid place
from Sheol’s reign.

Till, in the waiting and
the thirst, the new life comes,
and the poet flows again,
and the sage is brim with wisdom,
and the teacher puts away the
iron bell and sees the
learner fresh once more.

This is the turning.
This is death that
must come for new
life to spring wondrous
from dust.

 

14/12/2023