By Karla Doell
At first I was hesitant to write again,
perhaps out of fear
of not being as good as before.
But for the second time
I walked across the field,
which appears to be dead,
but is only playing possum
in instinctual protection
against winter’s impending reign.
The wind blinding me
by whipping the hair into my face,
again I found my inspiration.
Perhaps this is the definition of poetry:
saying in a hundred words
what could be said in ten;
but not till the hundredth
do you find the beauty and meaning
in a dead field of grass.
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