here

h e r e

  
here’s the poem that’s in my fingertips.

here’s the poem that does it right, regardless
of any self doubts, in fact, allows your very own
experience to bloom in a way you’d thought
before impossible.

notice your part, the lines you write.

here’s the dog that greeted you today, that
unabashedly leaned into your hands, that
poured life into you from its’ own willing wet
snout.

here’s the poem you didn’t expect to read.
yet you did.

here’s the meal you thought was lost.

here’s the kernel, the seed of corn.

here’s the coat when cold, the hat when
it rains.  here’s the shoes, here your feet.

then somebody says, here, I gotta show you this.
and it’s like rain, the same everywhere everywhen,
but it’s not.  the face is different now.

it looks like you looking me.

here’s the weeds you forgot to pull.
we are not a matter of beliefs.

even when we turn our backs
here remains.
 
 

neil reid © december 2011

 
 
And here, a poem I won’t explain.

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