The Midas Touch

the detritus of another summer afternoon
arrays itself on the blank page,
there is nothing to write,
a word or two drops by occasionally,
for the last hour ‘phantasmagoric’
has been swinging in the shadows
of an apple tree
with no fruit;

I am pleading for the gift of Midas,
the instantaneous alchemy of word to poem,
every word turning itself into sublime poetry
that will sail down with the glorious plumage
of the setting sky,
somersault with the iridescent fish,
and fall again as sweet rain
with the kiss of the eager sun;

I can hear you laugh,
the wind in your voice,
fluttering above, in the leaves,
Midas starved when food and drink
turned to gold at his touch,
I can hear you ask,
the poems swirling in your eyes,
tell me, what will you do,
when you run out of words?

Still ‘phantasmagoric’ listens
from a bough,
nibbling an apple,
his lips smile spun gold,
the sky is flying away
with a flap of its aurum tail,
the leaves and the wind
are filling my empty page
with polished iambic rain.

 

For Poets United where the midweek prompt is ‘Wealth’