by Frank C. Praeger

A muddle
not to be fathomed,
not to be added up.
Unquestioned quests,
a moment’s momentum.

Discarded stirrups hanging on the wall,

voices commiserating with each other,
birds that never did sing.
                Trips that were never completed.
Joys that could not be retained. Yes, static,
so charged without commandeering.
Let someone else tell you
what was clearer.

Let music

be adjunct to the weather.

* * * * *
Frank C. Praeger is a retired research biologist who has had poetry published in various journals in the UK and the USA.