Tonight, I start another poem
that will not be finished.
Yes, there will be something –
a knock at the door, a teakettle whistle –
it will catch my attention
and I will put down the pencil,
rough lines left hanging,
words making only half sense.
Then the phone will ring,
or I’ll decide to take a shower.
These thin sheets of paper
will flutter softly, touched by sunset
and a breeze from the open window.
Honey colored shadows will creep across the floor,
the deepness of night swallowing
table, desk, and chair.
Tomorrow I might find this half-poem
sitting here alone and think it ugly.
Or I will touch it and it will stir, alive again,
breath whispering words I haven’t yet thought,
scolding me for my negligence,
forgiving, with a kiss.
KWH 1999
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