#2 - There’s a poem in everything
by Linda FullerThere’s a poem in everything, so it’s been said
perhaps even by me in greener days,
in brighter years, a poem composting in a pile
of bear shit steaming on a winter morning,
transmutating essence into ether
to become another presence, something better,
something else; a poem in this cloud if not that one;
maybe in a lone strand of spaghetti
stranded in a colander, bereft, separated
from the gossip of his boon companions
who tangle snakish on a silver platter.
The cobweb writhing in a rogue air current
dreams of burnished suits of armor;
the ant egg trundled to a more commodious abode,
its cries unheard by every blade of grass but one,
the blade caught in the mower’s teeth, whose moans
meld with the ant egg’s screams, the birthing woman’s,
wounded soldiers’, children lost and wandering.
Yes, it’s been said that there’s a poem in everything
but, sadly, none within my head.
01/02/2011
