I read some beautiful poetry,
and I thought that I would write a poem
as if I was making an axe handle
I could use to free the feelings stirred
like termites in the roots of my chest,
which is to say my ribs —
even though that’s not quite
exactly what I meant to say.
What I really wanted to say
was something more elaborate
like, “all the birds sing
spring, they don’t sing for the spring —
they make it suddenly spring
by singing.” But then I got selfish.
And I decided not to write
a poem. You don’t get to know
what I felt, and what a joy it is
to keep these feelings to myself.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 8:15 AM UTC
I read some beautiful poetry,
and I thought that I would write a poem
as if I was making an axe handle
I could use to free the feelings stirred
like termites in the roots of my chest,
which is to say my ribs —
even though that’s not quite
exactly what I meant to say.
What I really wanted to say
was something more elaborate
like, “all the birds sing
spring, they don’t sing for the spring —
they make it suddenly spring
by singing.” But then I got selfish.
And I decided not to write
a poem. You don’t get to know
what I felt, and what a joy it is
to keep these feelings to myself.
