Some poems like this
There is a rule of thumb,
some paper in your pocket,
even one page. I don't.
Much less happens that way.
What was it I saw, your turn of face
past that airport glass, fair and near far
already then, and thinking sees,
Some poems are just like this.
There was a trace of you in the sky
beside that creek in my remembering.
I stayed and watched.
No paper in pocket that day,
yet written into me anyway.
Unrhymed history, or something
more than just me, what I see,
is honesty enough just in listening?
Some poems are just like this.
Undone in word if not deed.
And all the same it is more than just me.
Shall I just take what is given me?
There, build that wreath, winter's door
of summer memories, your face and
quietly held, just so as I will listen more.
Put down your hand, use heart instead.
That message was given me.
Some poems are just like this.
The leaves that made me laugh out loud,
some orange Autumn dress falling down on me,
the breeze that day.
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