In isolation during the pandemic I search for words. They are not
where I usually find them. Not at the grocery store. Not over a shared
dinner. The geese have come back and are showing off their
freedom. Gathering in flocks and making a ruckus that I eavesdrop
on. Maybe I will find a poem.
I have been previously published in The Fib Review, True Chili and in Shot Glass Journal, once earning a Pushcart nomination.
I am alive in Canada watching the prairie reawaken in Spring and I am blessed.
Shannon Joy Wazny
Anything Left To Give
Before was too loud and frantic as I remember it.
The birds went unnoticed in the sky.
The talking heads have ceased to shed
any light on tomorrow. Filling us in on yesterday's facts.
Your life is now foreign to me;
Behind closed doors.
I feel you are a tumbleweed diminishing.
I wonder if you just don't have anything left to give right now.
I instruct my heart to sprint and bonus beat for you.
I can heft the load.
Relax and breathe.
I'll meet you on the other side.