Into the Eyes (about writing)
I’ve looked high. I’ve searched low.
If I could just look into the eyes of a poem
I’d warmly say, “Hello”.
If I could whisper into a poem’s ear,
“Come here,” I’d say.
I’d softly sing a welcome song,
“It’s been way, way too long.”
If I could smell and feel a poem’s presence,
like April’s wild rush of warm-wind sweeps,
pitter-patterings, rhythmical marchings of rain bands,
hear resounding of tappings on steamy sidewalks,
there’d be little desire for much more entertainment.
If I could taste a poem’s spirit,
simply bask in sensational sharings-
initial bite of season’s first-ripe strawberry,
delightful dipping in bronze-tipped meringue,
sipping of hot chocolate’s charms
on a puff-fog-from-mouth morn,
a quiet cascade of snowflakes, each tumbling from Heaven,
the capture, the landing, the melting on my tongue.
There’d be a message given and received;
my whole being would hear it and
wish to hear again, again – and again.
I’m looking high. I’m searching low.
If I could just look into the eyes of a poem,
I’d warmly say, “Hello”. I tried. Goodbye.