I wonder if I’m noticing enough, even as I pause over fresh red leaves in the roadside next to the curb. There’s pleasure in writing poems, even breathless with exertion of reluctance.
The last robin in our neighborhood to fly away for winter might have gone already, or might not yet. A poem waits and exerts weight like that: a nostalgia before its time or a hope a little past its likelihood.
poet | artist 