The morning dawned cold and bright,
and I felt happy.
The poem I’d meant to write
paled before the day in front of me.
It was itself the poem.
All day I read it, the slash
of the jet’s trail, evolving form
till it became bar, feathers, ash,
then nothing. Brittle leaves
littered the sidewalk, tossed
like bets to the track after a race
by fools who think they’ve lost.
Pick up the ticket. Cash it in.
Celebrate your fortune. Begin again.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s