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Poem Happens...


Natalia Zaretsky

A poem is not written, it happens,
like feelings or sunset,
or a sudden summer rain,
or a whirl of snowflakes at my face.
The first line emerges
from under my half-closed lashes,
from the time, collected inside me,
shadows, laid quietly on the floor,
a moonlit painting on the wall.

Words quietly slide on a page,
Forming lines and spaces,
Filled with dim surprises.

Then sleep takes over.

In the morning light
a poem comes to life and rises
just as forget-me-nots that have been spread
flatly round on the rim of a shallow bowl
with roots centered in the water
start curving upward, reaching into the air.

And I watch as a poem soars apart from me.

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