Reading an anthology of poetry
I flipped through the pages
deciphering words and images
culled out from memories
over many lifetimes
from stored sensations
carefully captured thoughts
fast evaporating dreams
and I was-just-passing-by ideas
that stayed to make
meaning as metaphors.
I found my eyes straining as
my head and heart gently squabbled
over which way I should be led
when a page fell open
on flowers and ferns
found on a mountain walk.
And suddenly, even as
the printed words faded
the poems came alive
to my touch and how
they made pristine sense!
Not all poems are written.
Some are pressed.
This is a lovely twist, Charu, and that's what makes this poem special.
ReplyDeleteThis is lovely. Makes me think of everything in nature as poetry, which it is!
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