My friend the poet
writes about the recent future
taking close-ups of tomorrow’s past
somewhere inside myself
the abstract speaks in vivid color
every word she says
my friend the poet makes imperfect sense
her truth rings through me
counting the kisses on dewdrops
singing a cappella with her ghosts
charming clouds to let her inside
their dreamy shapes
look down upon the folly
chaos and despair
she writes about the worth of worry
it’s lighter than the air
she writes about making peace with fear
and explains the blindness in rage
cannot see around corners
and I understand these words
my friend the poet
on cloudy occasions
writes of her own voyage
many holes on a crumpled map
waves knocking her over and over
she tells her story surfing on her belly
to the shores of solid ground
and she as a magic poet
describes it so well
you get the picture
as if you were always there
