Poems are free.
They thread in and out
of each waking and sleeping moment.
Some sense a poem
as the brush of a butterfly’s wings
or a baby’s smile
or the chill that runs up their toes
when they are dipped in the ocean’s waters.
Then they pause and
drink of the moment as one consumed
And there are some
who are deaf and blind
lost in every day’s grind.
Then there are those like me
who scribble random words
hoping to trap
a semblance of a poem.
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