and letting my hair get very tangled
and when i get to my fiftieth poem i
wonder, how many poems in a day?
there are no limits.
because a poem is in our breath
and in our food
its in our walk
and our wrinkles
its in our toes
and underneath our fingernails
its in the occilating fan
and in the shadow of leaves on
the window screen
its in the linear silence of a room
and in the screams of children
its in the flutter of book pages
being passed through anxious hands
and the push on closed eyelids
when sadness comes rushing in
its in the refreshed afternoon sun
after taking all morning to get up.
a poem stays with you;
when you need it
and all these poems are just poems
unfinished of something someone
somewhere wanted to say,
they are the whisper of a
heartbeat and with my
heart i keep them
to keep beating
and breathing and
to keep moving forward.