I found a pile of poems I wrote
14 years ago.
Wow - I think -
What if they had been babies!
I'd have a houseful of teenagers -
Whole, new and OTHER people.
Instead of biology experiments,
I chose words, and here they lay where I left them,
unchanged, un-grown, un-OTHER.
But hey,
as I read them,
Memories of moments come alive -
forgotten things brought back and breathing,
The things I noticed, and thought,
Suspended in my well chosen words.
Makes me wonder,
Could I write some new poems like these?
Or -
Not new, but NOW -
To notice now, like I did back then.
Today's poem, not just another baby, born and left,
but its own awkward perfect creature,
grown from the dividing cells
of all the nows
I've noticed
since then...
Well, the metaphor collapses.
I just need to write.
(me at 14 - awkward creature...)
