The weight of inspiration
lies heavy upon me
on this Monday morning.
Commuters on the train, we sit,
iPhones, Androids, Kindles in hand,
along with a lone newspaper reader, a single guidebook peruser,
three who journey apparently disengaged,
(or more engaged)
- and your poetry strikes me,
sweeps me away.
I have not had my coffee.
It is too much,
it is too beautiful;
my soul
is not prepared
for the sparks that fly
for the hope that springs;
my mind,
lulled heavy by late nights and early mornings
wants to sit quiet
in its shell
- nothing expected,
expecting nothing.
I pause to reflect.
A tiny, burnt orange spider,
two millimetres in diameter,
weaves swift, tortured, repeated circles
across my clean white page;
endlessly, persistently seeking a way out.
I watch him till he finds
the end of infinity,
slips over onto, into, a forest of a hundred paper edges
holding poems between them;
journeys into the unknown.
We are both learning this dance,
weaving our steps
from familiar circles
into wild poetry
today.
