Those intrepid ditty writers,
That trio known as I,
Sought succour at the ditty well,
But it was emptied out and dry.
Can it ever fill again,
Will flowers always bloom?
Will birdsong peal at dawn each day,
Is life just womb to tomb?
For now the ditty canvas,
On which I scribe my whimsy,
Has wildlife there.
It’s gristly bare.
Art’s pinnacle is flimsy.
© Copyright Philip Barton, August 4th, 2025. All rights reserved
