Puddle

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.” — Robert Frost

A poem hovers somewhere

above me, just out of reach,

I know there is something

I need to free, some image

to get out, but just now 

I am preoccupied with a pain

in my knee, the heaviness

that comes before sleep,

and the listing of weekly

demands that begins every

Sunday evening, so that poem 

will hang above me like a cloud,

but one day the rain will come,

the words flood over me until 

I build the dam, tread into 

the deep water, drag myself 

to dry ground, wring my soaked 

skin out, and somehow shape 

the remaining puddle into meaning.

—C.L. Fisher, February 2021

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