Sometimes a poem tapes
on my shoulder,
shaped exactly in the form
of a feeling that needs to be
expressed,
the words fall from me like rain
and something in me
shifts,
Sometimes a poem taps
on my shoulder, and
then runs to hide
in long grass,
I follow it closely,
collecting half-concealed
words from the earth,
taking care to select
the right ones,
Arranging them like a
bouquet
Sometimes a poem
crouched in the dark,
calling. I forgot or
refused to listen, or
the listening feels too
hard, or too painful.
I leave it there for days,
or even year's.
The poem might tire and
leave, but poetry is patient, and
even after years of neglect,
Poems find me again,
tap me on the shoulder
And bring me to life.
