Perhaps it is not meant for me
to write a poem today.
To come with no offering, no tribute.
The day, which composes itself
so perfectly,
so full of light and air and sound.
So full of rainbows, shadows,
effortlessly
and it is given to me, no charge.
No contrition necessary.
Whether I cry or shout,
or hold my breath,
it offers itself.
It does what it does.
So I am in love.
I want to give it my heart, my soul.
I want my hands on its lips,
day that kisses everything.
I want it to hear my thoughts,
my rejoicing.
Day that sings and speaks in cadence,
and holds its silence,
and never says too much
or too little,
too loud or too soft.
Day that wants me to hold it,
and caress it,
and wage war,
and climb trees,
waits for me and never leaves.
Stands silently if I remain silent,
and gives me a shadow.
Day that shows me everything,
but only if I wish.
Only if I need to see,
to ache,
to run.
Day that owns me and lets me alone.
So if I cannot write a poem,
it is not for lack of love,
or words,
or desire.
Perhaps it’s trying to catch up with beauty,
the sky,
shining inside me.