Yesterday I didn’t write a poem—words and images flowed through my Mind but I could never get them quite aligned—I saw myself floating Through the years—as a toddler smelling a rose, as a young mother carrying

My babies, as a lover, as a teacher, as a daughter, as a scholar, as once a wife But now a wanderer—and time seemed to elongate and then snap closed, Just as soon as I tried to grab a word or phrase, it eluded me—leaving me

Disorganized, mistrustful—as though this gift of words could flee at any moment—before a thought could elapse another one came in—until I could no longer remember where one word or world ends and where I begin.