he didn’t know what to write about,
so he didn’t.
He just sat in his writing chair
and let some thoughts take off
inside him like small planes.
He watched them with care
as they ascended –
graceful ideas by the dozens
rising up inside him.
There were thoughts about friends,
about throwing baseballs when he was a boy,
about making poems in the morning,
about coffee that comes
to help him awaken.
He watched the thoughts climb
and circle away
and slowly disappear.
He watched them
and wondered at their poise and loveliness,
these mysterious thoughts
that would never be part of a poem.