Sometimes I feel the beginnings of a poem forming,
its baby bird beak pecking at the shell of my skull and
I ignore it.
Sometimes I see the shape of an interesting concept or
a perfectly phrased metaphor forms suggestively –
a succulent slice of savory language, or
a clever narrative might orchestrate itself artfully or
an untried avant garde style of self-expression will
flirt effectively with my puzzle – loving mind and
I will delight in the idea but
allow it to evaporate from my consciousness.
Sometimes the person inspired
wants only to be rooted in the present,
to simply live and experience aliveness
solely through the immediate input
of every one of the fleshy senses.
Many poems and stories
have gone undocumented
in favor of me taking the time
to smell my husband’s skin.