A Poem by a Friend

The poem
stands by the window at dawn
and mutters the things
that have to be said in private,
the eloquence of something
cut from bonds of skin and circumstance,
safe from prying eyes.
It's the equivalent of a prayer
but even God isn't listening.

The poem
goes for a walk in the woods down the lane
in the sweet morning after the night rain.
It counts and musters,
taking things out of their cases,
brushing away the road stains.
Then the poem sighs, finishes,
raises its brown eyes.