On Composing a Poem
I cannot write a poem again.
I cannot form the words a second time.
It flits, a firefly in the dusk, away.
If I don't capture it, it's gone.
My pencil/paper net can scoop it up -
A butterfly that wavers on the wind
 |
| Anthocharis julia prestonorum |
Or fingerling cavorting in the pool -
But only now, not later, not again.
A thought, a joy, a sadness,
A poem, a life -
Cannot repeat itself.
February 6, 2006
