If only I could write a poem
as brazen as an orange autumn leaf
tumbling along the street,
or sounds like rain
drumming of on an iron roof
or the rich, deep smell of earth
after the rain squall passes,
even the murmur of breeze in trees
and the song of cicadas
on soft summer evenings.
Yes, the single call of birds that thrill me,
or the magnificence of the setting sun
saluting the end of day.
The spin of sycamores
like little helicopters in the wind
and then, of course,
the dragonfly that darts and pauses
so impossibly along the lazy rivers.
And what about the lotus blossom
and the flowers that bloom in billions,
every day unseen?
The hulk of mountains holding up the sky.
The effervescence of the Milky Way
wheeling across forever.
Then there’s the kaleidoscope of colors
caused by a single drop of oil on water.
Smudged mascara after tears.
The majesty of self.
A child’s hand holding yours.
The gift of love.
A smile.
If only I could write these poems.
If only I could write.

Mike T Minehan