Writers’ Weir: Untitled

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;


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;





• To submit to Writers’ Weir, email your poetry, fiction or creative nonfiction to managing editor Mary Catharine Martin at maryc.martin@capweek.com.

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