Catching a poem is not like catching a plane.
A poem doesn't happen on a schedule.
It comes in its own good time, usually not when you've packed your bags, but when you're unpacking,
leaving a messy ring at your feet of unrecognizable matter never fully decomposed,
no matter how many therapists, or meditation apps, or bike rides, or spans of grace, or turns of a shovel.
On your best days, you pick a way out, clear a path, forge past, speed away, for a while.
But before long, the ground is littered again, some old detris, some new, alongside a few shiny objects that catch your eye.
And make you think 'hmm' and reach in.
'Maybe there's something in here besides the pain.'
Sifting, simply a poem.
