I almost never look for
poems, they rather find me.
They nag me till I refine
their ordering to suit them.
Well, so it doth seem to me . . .
but by then I am nowhere
to be found, leaving only
echoes of feeling being.
Like early this morn when I
did awaken to the hoo-
h’Hoo-hoo-hoo of the Great
Horned Owl, making me weep for
joy here, in the deep south of
North America. ’Twas much
too early to jump for joy,
though now I feel it coming.
No comments:
Post a Comment