Butterfly
I think a lot about the poems that get away
because my days are frenetic and often
unpredictable and because other people
keep walking unannounced into the rooms
of my calendar, stomping their heavy feet,
scribbling their nonsense across my pages.
Poems can be skittish creatures and just
getting them to land long enough to be
photographed, to glimpse the inside
of their wings, tends to require stillness.
And the world is full of poems flitting
about, landing, hovering, moving on.
We ourselves are poems that dance around
the heads of other poets. We stop
at the edges of flowers and breathe,
a slow opening and closing of our wings,
before some sound startles our quiet
spaces and sets us off in new directions,
before some collector with a net manages
to contain us, before we get pinned down.
No comments:
Post a Comment