worry

lowering my mouth and hoping once again
the flow still trickles by, enough to sip;
my own personal Ganges,
devotion and destruction, poison
I let murk the water
instead of filtering for gold.

because I know it will come--
I've reached that point by sheer practice
where these words come pre-assembled,
shaped to fit this space,
and some days all I have to do
is create a funnel of fingers
and let gravity do the work.

but I am still
all too used to the feel of rusty faucets,
trembling, but refusing to pour.
so I fear these words, this page,
every day.

worry for
those words most relied upon by bad metaphor.


because it always worked in the past
to carry all my smashed eggs in the same basket--
less to sift through,
as the majority rots through the weave.
but I would find myself inevitably hungry
and left with nothing
but broken shells.

--
Title is prompt. I was staring at this picture while writing it, but it really doesn't have anything to do with the poem. It's just an amazing picture.