These three month of time
on my hands, I have waited for you
to call me.
I have not written poetry,
words on paper waited for you
and avoided the line, silenced rhyme.
“Can you find me?”
you text and I become a river, cold,
flowing unstoppable in my haste
to get to you, to circle your waist,
to reflect your eyes for a story old
as echoing water, Solomon’s poetry.
I flow, listening to all my wild
feelings until I find you on the sidewalk.
I want to touch your lips
the way a river dips
into shallows, goes hush, no talk,
for poems are feelings inside, they hide
like stones in deep pools in starlight.