when all the
shapes of dreams
flew by
outside your window
and you
couldn’t catch one
to call your
own,
when every
gnarly,
blighted
branch of
life’s undoing
rotted right
up through your soles,
those pieces
of poems called out,
laying dormant
in blades of nevermind grass,
for you to
crawl
across the
grit of unholy floors,
to find
grace through
time-smudged
glass
and see them
beneath the soil,
coiled
and waiting for
you
to breathe them
into birth
Copyright ©
2013 Jennifer Wagner
A sort of tribute to poetry itself, as it is National Poetry
Month, and how poets are given poetry and with it the ability to turn pain into
art.