It’s National Poetry Month again, and once again I’ll be writing at least one poem every day. I plan to post them all here, though I won’t post daily. Most will be bad. Is this one? You decide.
He can’t distinguish a word from a pebble,
a mood from a mountain, a notion from a potentate.
His feet grow roots; no monsoon can move him.
All birds are black, and he needs a flashlight
to see the sun.