when a poet writes
a rose is just a rose, it’s name is not what matters most
it is its fragrant sweetness, blushing blooms, that we admire
sun, moon and stars, are more than just distant celestial orbs
they shift the tides, grant wishes, arouse hearts with raw desire
streams, lakes, and oceans have a certain way of stirring souls
in stillness, ripples widening into waves kissing the shore
unsettling the sand, just at the edge, eroding earth and stone
to draw us deep into the darkest depths longing for more
the air is not just something to be breathed in and exhaled
it is fragrant, gentle, fierce, tempestuous and still
a myriad of voices, each with different tales to tell
tossing wisps of hair, downing trees, scorching hot to bitter chill
a songbird’s trill, a babbling brook, cicada ecstasy
bitter herbs, fresh baking bread, a lover’s lingering scent
fresh laundered bedsheets cool to touch, warm mud between one’s toes
poets weave fantastical in ways some have only dreamt
~kat
Na|GloPoWrMo 2026 Day 26 Prompt: Today, we challenge you to write your own ars poetica, giving the reader some insight into what keeps you writing poetry, or what you think poetry should do.
Joining me at sunset is always good for a glimmer or two…or…evolving glimmers!
Much love, peace and glimmers to you!
~kat
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like mercury colliding... 