No Butterflies Today

No butterflies today. No flowers.
No trees. No hills. No sunsets burning.
No wondrous awe. No insights clear
demanding to be written down
right now/right here. No wry asides.
No sharpened wit. No Hudibrastic rhymes.
No silence giving birth to thought.
No that. No this. No deft reveal.
No metaphors. No meanings hidden.
No eyes opaque. No new day born.
No ocean waves. No invitation.
No path. No seat. No wall. No view.
No flame alight. No skewered smile.
No sunken clouds. No crashing fear.
No silent march to unheard screams.
No staring at the clock. No poets' dreams.
No book. No page. No line. No pen.
No ink. No words to say. No end.