Your poems make noise like the beat of a drum,
the swoosh of windshield wipers
against the unrelenting rain,
the gentle breeze rustling birds’ feathers
as dolphins sing,
and at times, like the sound of my blinker
when I’m stopped at a light.
Some have the need for speed
or iambic pentameter,
others retreat to the soul of haiku,
and those who engage in free verse
cast all doubt to the winds.
And though I remain blemished and scarred,
just a dot on this infinite map,
I seek the beauty of the stars
the camaraderie of friends,
and the noise of beautiful poetry.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
