Melaleuca on a Rainy Day

There Ought to be Poetry

Are these days that seem to have no poetry in them

not exactly what they seem to be?

Underneath the pedestrian hustle

and ordinary ordering of things commonplace

is there always some poetic pattern forming itself

to be revealed later when least expected,

like a butterfly preparing for its debut

inside the brown crusty shell of cocoon?

I don’t for a minute believe that shit

send up by Pollyannas who haven’t looked around them

that every cloud has a silver lining.

I will go right on believing that some of those clouds,

and its not easy to guess which ones,

are just as dark and mean on the inside

as they appear to be looming there on the horizon.

It’s possible that my heart knows more than my eyes do

about the potential for poetry in any given day.

Monday July 2, 2990