Ode to the Poet

By Dick Rafoth

He sits in the quiet of the morning
On the porch, dew dripping – his place.
The northerly has died.
The fog has taken its place – three poles, then nothingness,
Waiting for the words,
A few thoughts, random.
A line begins to form.
It will come – on its own terms.
Now the fourth pole appears, the osprey calls,
The day is awakening.
Time to get the paper.