I put this rhyme here so you’d know it’s a poem: to you, from me,
But how many poems right outside your door did you fail to see?
The crack in in your leavened bread, the froth on your milk,
The rain on the glass, billowing, as if it were silk.
Not all poems arrive arranged in perfect lines.
Plenty you can’t see—but you’ll know are there if your heart aligns.
And many others still, although they may be built from words,
Will be less audacious, winking at you to shape them into songbirds.
And when your heart breaks, or when the day is long—
When there’s only rubble left, and you think you must simply move along,
The poet in your soul will cry out and raise her fist,
“This if your poem—for bitter or sweet—don’t try and resist.”
Or if you feel lost and you forget your truth,
Just sink into the dream place, it will give you your proof
That your answers are within you, every last one.
Just wait for the darkness, behind the sun.
For when the moon is full, or when she is new,
Remember—our bodies are water, and the tides will tell you—
That dreams are not fiction, they are merely a sharper looking glass
To examine the truth to come, and has already come to pass.