I saw eight poems this week.
At least eight. Those were the ones
I knew I should write down--and didn't:
The smell of dew forming so thick
that the weight of it pressed all my worries
through to the antipodes,
leaving me singing along
with my windshield wipers.
Waves of heat rising from a roof,
an oasis hiding on the other side.
A songbird cheering as rain poured around her.
Too giddy to compose an aria, she trilled
and trilled again.
Relaxed curls spilling onto my hand,
her ear resting on my chest.
Scratches on the side of my car--
like clenched fingers and irritated muttering--
and an unbroken mirror on the ground.
Megan dropping her pen three times
before it hit the ground.
A car parked quietly behind the house,
but not telling anyone why.
No one was at home.
And a notepad of empty sheets
all hoping to carry a poem home
but returning just as wordless
as when they walked out the door
for over a fortnight.
So many poems I didn't see.