I left the door open, and a poem
slipped in. Starved for attention, thin
as paper, crumpled and rattling, it hid
in a corner of my room and waited,
patiently, for me to slow down, or
perhaps I would drift into a reverie,
where it might find me, and lead me
down a winding path. Soon enough,
I paused near a window, to watch
the afternoon sunlight falling, just so,
through a curtain of leaves, and the poem
pounced. Is it any wonder, that I found
myself, pen in hand, scribbling furiously
to capture the fleeting creature before
it flew away? Is it any wonder that, ever
since, I find myself lingering
near a certain window,
at a certain time of day?
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Konstantin Somov, Open door on a garden (1934),
oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons
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