It is not to search a poem
a poem happens as evening
does. Or the orange sunset
or the pariah’s limping
or even the outrage of rains.
A poem happens as winter does.
Or birth.
Or death.
In this there are spaces.
A poem walks them
and creates its own.
In childhood I saw poetry.
Read poems.
Bubble of curiosity.
Then when I took to writing
(them)
other voices called, asking for
more.
A poem happens, keeps happening
all the time.
A fair weather friend.