The Great Word Roundup
 
The words I’m looking for
lie scattered through the fields.
How can I round them up?
I near one and it squeals
 
and hides behind a shrub.
I whistle or I cry,
“Come, metaphor!” But that
just scares it, for it’s shy.
 
A noun hides in the hills.
An adverb leaps a fence.
A verb I try to rope
bucks hard in self-defense,
 
breaks free and bolts away.
A rhyme arrives at last!
So what? The spark has passed.

Martin Elster
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Martin Elster would like to hear them.