Into The Void

Today, feeling sorry for myself, I wrote this poem, which I dedicate to my erstwhile email correspondent Hank Lazer, with whom I have exchanged a few sporadic emails.

Into the Void

Harder still

Is writing

Into a void

To receive

No response

At all

To email

Or query

Makes

Words appear

Even smaller than

They ordinarily 
Seem to be

Happy the tree

When it falls

In the forest alone

As it comes to rest

It makes a perfect home

For countless

Termites and scarabs too

I only wish it were true

That some of my poems
Could be likewise consumed


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Ps:  On a happier note, sort of, Hank replied when I sent him a link to this poem.  I hope he doesn't mind if I share some of what he wrote with you: 

For nearly all poets, that ongoing sense of futility, of the void, of who cares – is an ongoing difficulty.  Also a blessing; perhaps, otherwise we would not face so precisely the need to do what we are doing for its own sake…

 To which I might further add - better get ready for me termites.