My Mother's Poem
What happens to the poem that never happened,
A poem that never made it into words, that never
Went beyond an image, an inspiration, that image
Taking on its own life, summarizing so much?
What happens to the memory of it, the poem that
Never happened, like the one my mother always
Claimed she meant to write, wanted to write but
Never did, the poem she saw one morning, an image
She said she saw waiting outside the front door,
The world deep in leaves, all fallen overnight, lawns
And sidewalks covered, even the street, Route Seven
Was leafmeal deep in it, as if the world had changed
Overnight she’d say when she talked about that moment
Over the years; her poem is still there like those leaves,
Silent memories, but colorful for all that, poems to
Be caught up in a breeze, dance about, blow away or
Be carefully raked up, then collected in neat piles of
Memories, memories of things might have happened
But didn’t.