I put this rhyme here so you’d know
it’s a poem: to you, from me,
but how many more poems right outside
your door did you forget to see?
The c***k in your leavened bread,
the froth on your milk,
the fresh rain on the glass,
billowing as if it were silk.
Not all poems arrive
arranged in perfect lines.
Plenty you can’t see, but you’ll know
are there if your heart aligns.
And though they may not yet
be built from verse or word,
they’ll wink at you to shape them into
the music of your inner songbird.
And when your heart breaks,
or when the day is long—
when there’s only rubble left, and
you think you must simply move along,
the poet in your soul will cry out
and raise her hands to the sky,
“This is your poem, and if you don"t
claim it, it’s only your own heart you deny.
