The writing of poetry 
is like sweating profusely 
on the hottest day
of the whole year 
but only dripping the 
tiniest of bead down 
the most inconvenient place 

You can separate 
the yellow from
the white but
you can never 
put back the 
egg into shell 
anymore than you 
can put love 
back into person 
once it’s free 
but you can 
separate the good 
from the bad 

Your heart 
is a
sheet in
summer a
blanket in
fall and 
a warm 
downy pillow 
in winter 

I have stepped 
off of and 
away from the 
spinning contraption at
first dizzy trying 
to find focus 
like ballerinas after 
their first tries
at the pirouette 
falling to knees 
maybe sitting or
even lying down 
watching as life
and clouds rush 
past like shoppers 
on sale day
certain of need
but want I
have discovered comes
later after the 
hordes have had 
their selfish fills
and their aftermath 
provides the pause 
needed for me
to discover want

I’m dry this 
drought taking hold 
my roots burrowing 
deeply for some 
moisture of inspiration 
none coming from 
the clouds of 
you just broken 
and dry promises 
forcing me to 
go deeper without 
than upwards towards 
you my rain 
my leaves outstretched 
begging for embrace 
and relief from 
my own imagination