The cascade of words is faithless and there is no poetry in me.
The tides of life are turning; slack water
makes a fissure in my late-come torrent of creativity.
Droplets here and there, no more than three-line stanzas
of seventeen syllables not worth the writing.
I scan the scenery for magic, melody or fire
but the veil remains, misty, a camouflaged cage.
It won’t free me to dance.
Red Wolf Poems are giving us some of our own words back in Wordle form. Do go and see what others have done with them.