Peace

For so long I was always a
frantic poet,
a FRAN. TIC. PO. ET.
if you know what I mean.
300 postit notes on the floor
spilling out of my satchel.
400 old journals in that satchel,
under my arms
stuffed with pens ready for
every rainy day.

But sometimes now
I am content
to lay dosing beside you on a Sunday
and watch the poetry you have loosened
work it�s way out of my skin
dance through the air
and
dissappear.

copyright 2003 by devon