MY POEM

MY POEM

Phyllis J. Wright 

You keep asking,

 “Where is your poem?”

“My Poem?”

“Yes, your poem.”

“It is hiding”

“Where?”

“In my mind.”

“Where was it in January?”

“In January, it was frozen.”

“And February?  Was it still frozen?”

“In February, it began to thaw.”

“And March?”

“The wind caught it in March

And blew it away.”

“Did you ever find it?”

“I searched, and searched  

And, found it in April.”

“Where did you find it?”

“In a bed of golden daffodils.”

 “Was it healthy?”

“It was weak and sickly”

“You say in bed.  Did it die?”

“In May, it had a slow recovery.”

“And June? Did it blossom?”

“It put down roots in June.”

“Did it grow? Flesh out?”

“It was anorexic but alive,”

“What did you do to your poem?”

 “I looked it over, and decided to keep it”  

“Good, show it to me. “

“In July, I had a problem.”

“What was it?”

“In July, a blast of hot air

And high temperatures quick-dried it.”

“That was July, it’s August.

Where is it now?”

“My poem?”

“Yes, your poem.”

“It’s hanging upside down

From the rafters in my kitchen.”