Here and there
\nI pick up pieces of myself.
\nHalf written sentences
\ndead in childbirth,
\ndoors unlocked,
\npart open.
\nEverything scattered,
\nuntidy,
\nin disarray.
\nI am a junk pile,
\na room where things are dropped,
\nwhere I have no time to straighten,
\nto put away,
\nneaten.<\/p>\n
But a little at a time,
\npassing through,
\nperhaps a poem will write itself,
\na box be closed,
\nthe floor swept up,
\nand I surprise myself,
\nwonder where I am,
\nhow neat I\u2019ve become!<\/p>\n
Then,
\nI\u2019ll throw a note to the floor,
\ncrumpled in frustration,
\nacknowledge,
\nthat nothing ever stays
\nas it should,
\npoems miss their mark,
\nlove,
\nfound in the morning,
\nis gone by afternoon,
\nand I am right back
\nwhere I started from.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Here and there I pick up pieces of myself. Half written sentences dead in childbirth, doors unlocked, part open. Everything scattered, untidy, in disarray. I…<\/p>\n