A ton of poems,
all feather weight,
your breath upon them
to release, up-float them,
they all patiently await.

A glance,
a catch in the throat,
the noises of you ,
rumbles from the kitchen,
dishwasher unloading,
creating a racket,
creating a new poem,
for in the sounds of
disbursement of the dishes,
this poem doth originate.

A ton of poems,
like the white blanket
in my bubble bath,
a puff, a finger kick
and up they go,
a feather trigger,
and a new one-ton,
free and gone,
a poem free, newly born,
from my surroundings parented,
and given up to you,
a foster child, to keep, raise
and hold close.