Monument

The hardest part of writing is staring at the blank page with no ideas.  After I get a line, a rhyme, a homophone, or something to begin, it's not so bad.  Some weeks I come up with something I like.  A lot of the time I find myself writing without a great deal of satisfaction other than keeping the tools sharp, so to say.

In any case, this week's efforts keep sharp the tools of basic rhyme and meter.

Monument

I biuld a monument

For things that had passed through

A shifty gust

A migrant moth

A memory of you

And resting on the top

In Western-facing view

A followed whim

A brief embrace

A timpani of two

I built this edifice

Of sand and dusk and dew

For melted wax

For ended songs

For shifting motes of blue

The tide comes rolling in

To claim what rites it's due

My monument,

My sacrament

I knew it would pass too