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.