I bathed in your forgotten September warmth,
wishing the deep pain from
any movement had vanished overnight
with the rain clouds.
While whiskers hit my ankles, curious–
And steam rose out of my tea.
From the shadow of my pen
I pulled your name
And together we listened to the waking noises–
protests, passions, pride, pie in the sky.
Many call your power immeasurable–
Today it will return me to the cool shade
of my home for my journal.
A treasure for my drowning poet.
She climbs unsteadily to her feet and
extends an arm to the air.
The Blue Jay does not consent.
There is a moment where hope is dashed
before my poet remembers that it
is not about the bird
but the shadows of her hand holding a pen.
And to that image she returns–
Part of her mind wishing to paint it and
The other part knowing to photograph it at once.
Sharp pain radiates from the deep cuts
through her core
She takes in full breath–remembering that
the poet still lives.