To
a Poem Written Yesterday
I
was working on the proof one of my poems all morning,
and took out a comma. In the afternoon, I put it back in
again. Oscar
Wilde
You
incubated in darkness, were born in a yellow notebook, loved
like any fantasy child.
Then
the rearranging began. Was one line too long?
I amputated. Did you need more color? I
gave you the fuchsia of peonies, the
fresh green of new growth
Then
attached the amputation to a short sibling. Your song began to
sound listless I added some liquid alliteration.
Your
rhythm seems off. I tapped my fingers. beat a drum,
marched and again added
and subtracted
parts
until
you didn’t resemble the poem I loved yesterday....
~
So
now after seven versions, singing, amputating, drumming, and
reading into a recorder, I return to the original pushed out
on the page— and find I still love it
unconditionally.
It’s
uneven edges, the yellow and fuchsia dance between green
reattached lines. One line seems to sings to another, a heart
beats-- Yesterday’s poem has decided to stay.
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