So many lines of poetry
wander in and out of mind
as I walk s l o w l y, circumnavigating
what my then kiddles-now-nearly-grown
called “the Big Egg.”
Right now, I am a poet who is not a poet.
So I let each line go.
Several repeat silently for beauty
(three times if it is really good).
Mostly, they are gone,
either cast away or floating off,
by the time my right foot
lifts and settles, my left foot
lifts and settles.
Yet this one that you are reading
got caught in the strands of my hair,
like the leafy detritus I often find
after a morning of weeding and pruning.
Hours later, brush in hand,
buck naked before the mirror,
poetry falls to the sink,
among toothbrush, hair product,
razor & random pen,
a chance for momentary ink
fades us all.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston