Writing a Poem

The blinds keep out the light of midmorning:
The yellow sun outside is smiling,
But I am oblivious to its felicity.

I work inside a narrow space
That’s full of books and colored pens.
The artificial light’s my calibrated sun:
Neither dim nor bright – just right.

A few words scribbled on my pad –
The fruit of long reflection.
A sigh escapes from me. How dismal
is the progress – the wrong word!

My eyes stare at my blank achievement;
The sorry etchings do not count.
I tear the paper free and crumple it
And open up the blinds.

Copyright Dennis Cortes 2021

(Photo by Kira auf der Heide on Unsplash)

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