Loose Leaves (Poetry)

There was a time — there must have been
when I didn’t fill scraps of paper
with all these words — outpourings
the excess of thought line by line
and often so inexpertly caught
for the meaning behind them
too often fell shy of the page
or the back of an envelope
grabbed up in haste
as they spilled ...

Too many to count
and too many unfinished
a mountain of paper with no discipline
an odd kind of diary
a record of thinking
years in the making
the form ever-changing
rhymed and unrhymed
the rhythms won’t settle
they’re flyaway messages
dusty loose leaves.

The muse-tree’s bent on shedding ...
and evermore shedding.
It’s fluttering Autumn all year.