My Apologies
These small lines stare
like a juice glass with
limits.
They taunt me like
last year's stalk-
chompin' rabbit.
They stare with
incrimination that
I left them long ago
and baggaged them
so with other
acquaintances.
What reminds me
then of your tiny
scant glance?
That endtable book?
That lyrical hope
a friend has followed?
Yesterday's Missouri river
rush received up close?
A need like prayer?
A desire?
Poetry pushes upward
to Light a reason to
fertilize its flow.
Again. After absence.
After avoidance.
After my apologies,
I'll take your invitation
quite slow, but
with full-eyed,
late night, imagistic
growths of hope.
Fieldfleur
1 comment:
I have often wondered if you were a poet. It certainly seemed you should be.
All I can say is, "More!"
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