Focus. Work
on finishing that poem.
It grows. It shrinks.
It breathes.
Perhaps overthinks. Because
that's what a poem does.
It is as I am.
It lives its own life.
She rights me as I write her
but she won't wait and I find
the poem is poet
and I am but a scribe
on the run to keep up
with a sprite on the fly
and a soul escapes
my reach. Because
that's what a poem does.