" Do you still write poetry?"

Days come and go

when I dance

almost elf-like across the folds

of the weave of life

and thoughts never

land too deep to get caught.

But sometimes

I stumble onto memories

All created with you

And I fall helplessly

Into the glacial fissure

Of regret and

Shuddering awareness of loss.

Then I write poetry

Secret lines

that I hide from my own eyes

as soon as they have bled forth

Things I should not see

If I want to walk straight

Not tearfully blundering.

Oh yes, I write at times,

But things so delicate

So fragile that they bleed on touch

Cannot be moved at all,

look best where they are

like spring-flowers

wilting when plucked,

most beautiful where they first grew.