Today's poem is by Alyse Knorr

Babel
       

There with the infant aspens
I could hear the cold of the brook—

could imagine, finally, a language
without rhymes, unsingable.

Was I not a buffet table of offerings,
and in the center my own apple-

stuffed head? I'm deadly with
words. The ones I say to myself:

there's no words for those words.
Just a brook sound, now, in its place.

Babbling on and on like a language
that pulled down a tower.

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Copyright © 2023 Alyse Knorr All rights reserved
from Ponder Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission