Poem 26, June 26
While I struggle to write, after words come slow,
she comes to me & wipes sweat
from my brow
& stands behind me until I write.
Until I write,
she stands behind me, & somehow
knowing I have written a poem, neat
or unpolished, she will touch my soul & go
to the place she came from, into the dark night,
or light of day, & when images & the word
follow her & my internal voice
calls out to her, she returns, places
her arms around me until I write.
Once she brought so many words, like a herd
of cattle, scattered across my room, choice
fat ones, louse infested with tear streaked faces,
too many hungry calves & then she left me to sort out
the ones fit for a love poem
& since that night, that fitful night
I have not seen her.