As I write ifs and elses
& grab some dreams
out of the shelf,

I am struck by
a miracle with beautiful legs.

I am struck again
by a feather with a soft spring song.

And I lose my mind
to these little things that belong
to that time before summer.

The melody that echoes in my humming
and your beautiful uncompromising pace
send my spinning wheel of emotions
to never ending places.

To love you is to write you down,
word for word, until the pen loses its ink,
and another days goes by in dazes
and it could rain deserts for all I care.

All of the sudden,
my poem gets touched by other,
and that’s how poetry is made,
you see?

She lives in all of us,
somewhere, somehow,
waiting to be unfolded.

And the day will come
that the best poem will come bursting
out of an entire life of compilations.