While we lay among the the cornflowers
and Creeping Charlie in the yard,
the backs of our closed eyes painted red with sun,
your living body is proof
of my living body.

I peek between my lashes while you doze,
and search for
the Poetry;
I have never quite understood
where it comes from.

How does one make
Poetry?

It is there,
certainly-

some lies in the crook of your elbow,
there is a trace resting along your bottom lip,
a smudge gracing your forehead,
there is some tangled in
your hair.
But where did you find it?

It is there,
woven easily between your piano fingers like
a wilting dandelion stem,
I can feel it when I rest my head
against your chest.

Harmless, buttery clouds trot across the face of our postcard sun
like milk polluting a raw egg yolk
in my mother's cracked blue mixing bowl
when preparing pie crust,
it shadows your bare shoulders
and takes the red glow from the backs of your eyes,
but it does not take
your Poetry.

It makes me wish I had some
of my own.

For now, I will just steal yours,
I hope you do not mind-

Later you will catch me, pen in hand;
poems hanging limply like poached game
from my hands,
guiltily I will turn them over.

I only ever borrowed it you know,
the Poetry still belongs to
you.