For Big Tent Poetry Prompt: Wordle
Grind teeth as I attempt
to gain angle on resistant
list of mismatched words.
They rotate, float away,
become ever more remote,
while I grasp after some kind
of handle at back of darkening
depths of inner poetry cabinet.
Hoping only to find form,
maybe some kind of function,
discover instead that I’m over
my head, and have lost sharpened
edge of blade to normal alertness.
Put it away for some other day,
realizing it might be better to try
writing a sonnet.
Elizabeth Crawford 2/3/11