The Poem I Meant to Write


I regret not writing you down,
you swam through my mind
linking words and thoughts
with gossamer chains
that glistened with meaning,

But the kitchen can was calling my name
using the voice of my wife.
There were skinned knees to be kissed,
equations to be sorted out,
house rules to be followed.

Has the opportunity passed?
Have you flown, like a caged bird
through a conveniently open window?
Are you even now winging toward
another poet, a different writer?

I have the scraps, the fragments,
the word-pieces I had intended
to build you from.
I will try to arrange them so,
in hopes they cast the same shadow.

Like my grandmother's smile
you linger just behind my eye,
waiting for me,
wanting to be released
in just the 'write' form.

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