Poetry visits me at all hours:

in the middle of a phone call

under an umbrella

rushing through the rain

in front of the cans of beans at the co op.

She wiggles in

taps my shoulder

curls her finger up at me

not a care with where I am:

my hand in a leash loop

with my dog in tow

my back laying in bed

with a furrowed brow seeking sleep

my shoulder against the wall

watching pots simmer on the stove

my knees in dirt and fingernails caked

pulling weeds from the ground.

She’s everywhere

and somehow nowhere

unless my pen

guides her into being.