Poem Waiting

All day long there has been a poem waiting,

hanging around in my mind like next spring’s daffodils.

Those damned things are so powerful

I can smell them months ahead of their actual appearing.

Violets do that, too, especially the little wild ones.

This poem that I can smell and taste and almost see

is one that’s peeked at me at times before today

like the people I may have seen somewhere 

suspended in blackness behind flimsy curtains,

tentative and androgynous but definitely there.

I’ll sit and wait awhile to see if more of it appears.