What did you do on Poetry Day?
Did you look at someone you love—and quickly look away?
Did you write a poem, and feel awkward doing so?
Awkward—because of what all bright days and all dark branches know?
Were you able to love one moment—a single moment—that flew,
A moment, like a dream, which loomed up like a rain cloud, and sighed, in front of you?
And because your moment was sad, and yet happy, you felt in your heart what that moment knew?
Did you peek in your heart, and find out what was true?
Did it tell you poetry’s secret? That poetry is love from start to end?
That love lives secretly in perfumed paper we send?
Does love make you uncomfortable? Well, that’s okay.
You are not a poet. The muse does not love you, anyway.
