I stammer. I stutter.
I stupidly sputter...          
            then stop
the futile, frantic,
purely pedantic
reach into this clamor
for the poem I’ve lost
on some dusty shelf
in maze of myself
             I breathe,
cease to hurry, worry,
see clear what was blurry.

I become the poem
I couldn’t quite compose
            and know
as I bear its light
hope grows and burns bright.
Live now through this meantime,
sans rhythm, verse or rhyme,
lay down perfection,
trust new direction,
            and rest
in the image-rich stream
of life’s languorous dream.