do you read poetry? what
do you know of poets? we
are a distracted lot. yes. I write
and call the scribbles poetry,
call it prose. it flows from
the pen in my hand in long ribbons
to suggest ideas and emotion or
maybe meandering descriptions
of places that we have seen. that
I have seen without you. that you
may have seen without me. the world
outside my window changes with
the position of the sun, with the time
of day. like Monet’s cathedral painted
day after day to capture the light changing.
i am no Monet. but i capture light
if not of day then of night, of dreams
and wishes rising above beds or fountains
that collect the coins of dreamers
who wish a dream real. a million
pinocchios wait in the shadows
for a blue fairy to wave her
wand so they may breathe.

i don’t mean to ignore the world
and especially not you. maybe I
should apologize. instead i withdraw.
hide as if I were rude or unwelcome.
and stumble along arguing by jiminy
with a cricked in my head who
suggests the most outlandish adventures
that only take me farther afield, farther
from you. ironically posing that it will
bring me to wholeness and what i most
want in the world. the butterfly’s wings
open and close like a colorful heart
taking the spring sun. the fluttering
tickles and brings a laugh, joyous noise
that rises into the blustery blue air, winding
through leaves and buds now emerging
from the gray skin of branches.

16apr13