Writing a poem is like love,
it cannot be dragged in,
it must want to be with you;
Feel safe—be respected.
After a poem is finished
it knows more about you
than you know about it.
The words of poem;
small hands
holding on
to everything;
carrying
so much.
Words are forever;
It is we who slip away.
Words never disappear;
It is we who lose definition.
We sit in the middle of the circle;
The poem surrounds us; humors us.
Late night walks along a desert highway,
Footsteps tracing the center line;
Afternoons beside a silent frozen lake;
Ravens circling overhead;
Quiet moments with children;
Clarity of words
shredding pretense.
Years later, having scratched out details,
moments ring timelessly true;
The poem you never imagined
steps like a lover from the bath,
Towel held just so, inviting fulfillment;
Word entry, word withdrawal;
Sayings of intimate self;
Conception.
• To submit to Writers’ Weir, email your poetry, fiction or creative nonfiction to managing editor Mary Catharine Martin at maryc.martin@capweek.com.
