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.

J. K. Durick