What She Told Me


When writing a poem - pen dangling
like a ciggie from a fat lip -
just sit with it, she said.
Everything fragile must be cradled:
a heavy sigh blows through the filigree
of smoke, smears lace into paste,
pushes out into disorder like...like...
waves on lugworm casts,
the spoon in milk-splashed tea
(she wrote some down, and I
saw her work take slow shape
through luck and design).

 As she wrapped the olive cashmere scarf
around her neck a second time
I looked up from my notebook,
shook her hand with half a smile
and thanked her for the gift of being kind.

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