The Day Between

Barbara Powell: Poet

Leaves on White Paper

As I sat to write

this morning

I realized

I am more in love

with the way

pen inks the paper

than

with the words

I have written.

Remnants

from a dream:

Sitting

in a tree

the leaves

all have something

to say

but I could not

listen

to them all.

And so

the pen

curled against

white page:

the words

I wrote

were

their performed

wind-blown

dance

and nothing more.

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Feel it. Think it. Write it.