Lost Words

By the light of fireflies
They scurry through the night
On stealthy little feet
They’re always out of sight.

An ever-growing line 
Begins to pack a winding trail
Beyond the bending oak tree,
Beneath soft shadows in the vale.

They’re carrying their plunder,
Securely on their backs
Whisked away by midnight,
In tiny little sacks. 

Then they each pick up their shovels
And they all dig tiny holes
Burrowing beneath the moss
Like a pack of little moles.

Tossing in their spoils
Making sure there’s nothing left
They cover up the evidence
Of their furtive theft.

At last, they hold a party,
A celebration, if you will,
Dancing in the dewdrops
That roll across the hills

Until the sun begins to inch
Above the earth’s east rim
And the twinkle of the stars above
Begins to slowly dim. 

This is my explanation of
Where a poet’s lost words go,
Taken by a flighty muse — 
But where? — we’ll never know. 


october 2005
Janet Reid