Ive lost my poetry.

Not the poetry of wildflowers and fair maidens, nor that of lost loves or jaded spirits. But the poetry that resonates within daily existence, that perpetual fuel of conscious thought. Emerging at times when there would appear to be no significant thoughts at all.

I had it by the nape of the neck not so long ago. But it slipped from me somewhere, as it tends to do from time to time.

And each morning I wake in shrouded silence, I wonder- where has the poetry gone?

I search in the most common places for items misplaced. but it is not, i find, in the couch cushions, or under the bed, nor even in the fridge, though that a favorite for socks.

I wait inside the sunsets for clues to where its gone, I wander the dark streets where more than once Ive found it again.

Ive no fear that it will return to me, in time it always does. But these hours without it ring in my ears, they dull my days and empty my nights.

In my searching I remember the moments I had it. Those moments, so fleeting it seems to me now, where I held it firm- my fingers entangled within its locks, being led as surely as I was leading it.

I wait with patience, as it is all I can do, and set on the door step the lures I think it will come to.

I wait and I wonder, and I remember and I plead. For each second that passes without its song is as a thousand years to me.

This I bear in mind as I'm shaken from my peace, it will itself restore. In time, it will rebound. Keep open your mind to the rhythms it exudes, do not chase; but open wide your windows lest it hears your call and covets return.

I abide.