Words like branches reach out to the sky;
Poets always walk alone and wonder why.
Poets always stare too long at the beautiful:
a child, the moon, a blueberry bush so full.
A random lady in front of a Friendly's
bends to touch a white flower, its green leaves
point up skyward.
Again, I see that metaphor, awkward
of life and beings all reaching up
as if to grow from bottom to top is not to give up.
As if to write about it makes it so.
My son says don't write about me though.
He asks, Is it about these crayons?
It is now, but way beyond
those four basic colors, red, yellow, green, blue,
which can't even capture you.
The riper of two fruits to my taste
is a man's words that fall from so much haste.
All this desire I try to feed,
my fingertips stained from picking blueberries.
A Sunday afternoon, a day almost done.
A poet almost satisfied with what she's begun
to articulate, to communicate:
a fishamajig on a plate,
a few french fries, the still blue skies
and something from deep within that plies
through the waves of black ink crashing down on the pages through this pen.
As if writing in a booth in a crowded Friendly's is a way to find my Zen.