Unwritten Poems

Poems marinate in hope.
The morning has been shining like a lost mirror in the grass. I sneeze intermittently and it feels endless. Dirty plates are sitting on the table from the night before. I blow my nose and wish the day had started earlier. I overslept. I am waiting for an unwritten poem to descend from heaven or ascend from hell into my brain. I haven’t written poems for a while. I was told I wasn’t good. But reading about Ka and how poems visited him, I remembered how they used to visit me when I was unaware:

I burn the edge of a thread of hair
It curls and smells
It sparkles and lights
It sounds like a drop of water
sprinkled in hot oil Share