mystic words unspoken
scribbled out in haste
placed in a box
the lid down tight
all were not thought about
until today when, as the plane took me
over the patch work quilt leading to Philadelphia,
suddenly recalled those fragments
not entire to be called poem
so no one under the wind will recognize
precisely what those pieces are
until i weave patches together
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
I like this poem. It reminds me of all those word fragments and phrases, snatches that can become a poem "when woven together." And I know you know that feeling of the words that come into your head, completing the sound or the rhythm or the meaning, moments or hours or days later, after a poem is begun.
Post a Comment