I was really bored on the flight from Calgary to Victoria. With the turbulence, reading made me sick, and I felt like I had been knitting all day. My seatmate's long legs kept me from digging around in my bag for my headphones. I used to write poetry when I was a teenager. None of it was any good. Nor is this one. I always feel cheesy or fake when I try to be poetic. Additionally, I have no clue about poetry's conventions and rules. Enjoy!
The sunset taunts as it lays
on a horizon of blue-grey cloud
spread in drifts far below me.
Ever before me in my westward journey,
never changing, never setting.
It rests and waits for me,
its smooth orange glow
holding a promise of the rest
that I know I will find eventually.
Until then, I fly,
sitting too long and thinking too much.
My fingers fly too, with needles and yarn,
as my mind, awkward and rusty,
composes poetic nonsense
from a muse long banished.