Patty Dickson Pieczka
When fire pours from a thimble
in the sun, and my needle
pokes embers, raising sparks;
when diamonds spawn
on dirty dishes, struggling
to slither upstream
to the faucet,
I glimpse the unwritten poems.
They are all around me,
flicking their wings
along my peripheral vision.
But there is no time to write.
I sort through paint samples,
discard a swatch of moonlight.
“Lost Poems” was previously published in Red Rock Review
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