A poem is just a thought
that I type one-handed while the other hand dangles a cat toy sometimes, the thought is a stepping stone in a shallow stream where I balance on one foot, watching ideas float by like fallen leaves if the color is right I catch one feel it slick in my palm sticky with meaning lines appear, veins of understanding to understand a poem is to know that when Spring comes the leaves will emerge without encouragement from you the buds will break the ephemeral seed-leaf will unfurl whether or not you go walking beneath or beside them but wouldn't it be something if you could tell a story about the day they pushed themselves into the world; you could say I saw a tree, and it was like a mother labouring and just like that a poem is born you didn't even need both hands
