Today I lost a poem.

I had the words typed out on a glowing screen last night,
And I thought they were permanently etched in my mind
like sensuous figures carved in stone.

But the night wore down my words,
And I am a blank page again.

Now I sit down to string letters into words,
hoping they make the same images as last night,
of birds skimming the face of the water,
and the sun settling on the sheet between water and air.

I hope they recapture the sounds and fragrances I felt
like the sound your eyes made when you turned in bed,
like the scent of you left behind
even when you have made your way into the crystal lake,
like your voice doing cartwheels in my head.

When I have finished rewriting the poem,
I hope I have put together all fragments of what I had lost,
and that the mosaic is still just as complete
as it was last night.


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