Too Late To Revise

~Too Late to Revise~

A black typewriter
tossed into the weeds,
its keys exposed to dust
and downpours,
makes poetry that a bird,
perched in a nearby tree
finds questionable.

But the bird's interest is tweeked;
its mind open,
while new lines give rise
to rare sounds heard only by those
in solitude, because there's
nothing but a black typewriter's
rusty dream of a poem within earshot,
as the rain begins to tap, tap,
upon a bent and broken thing of the past.

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Spinoza's picture

I really liked this – the

I really liked this – the whole image of an old rusty typewriter in the weeds, that dreams of writing a poem... while a little bird – perched in a nearby tree, wonders what to make of it.


It's quite a lovely scene.