Ephemera

I tried to assemble a book of poems

Then divided it into two books,

Finished one of them,

Got depressed,

Got stalled

And realized ... poetry

Isn't a task, a chore, or a project.

It's a joyful moment,

An ephemeral process of

Reaching up into the ethers

And grasping whatever is there. 

Looking at it,

Witnessing it,

Having a conversation with it.

Poems are like birds,

Each with its own flight,

Nest and favorite tree.

Each with its own version

Of Song.

Birds occasionally flock together

On the lawn to gather food

Or fly away for

The winter.

Do poems?