Three Poems About Writing

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Missed Connections
Yesterday, my meaning-maker
—by which I mean brain—
found stray poetry in everything:
         the violets in the yard
         the soap shushing from its dispenser
         the everything and nothing in your smile
but I didn’t write them down,
those slivers of verse,
convinced (again) that I’d remember,
that I had time.
Today, nothing sings.
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Forgotten Drafts
I read my old work
searching for hints of myself
but find a stranger.
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Busy
Today darted like a rabbit,
zigzagging across the hours,
leaving a path of unfinished tasks
strewn in its wake.
Poetry (like the laundry,
and the mending,
and the grout in need of scrubbing)
did not rise to the top of the list
—and won’t
if I do not set myself down
carefully
in my chair
ignoring the minutes ricocheting
off the hardwood floor,
and slow myself
long enough to hear
the gentle tapping in my soul:
words, ready to tiptoe out
if they can get through edgewise.
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