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I sit down to write a poem.
The news is playing on the radio,
the cat watching a rabbit in the window.
My smoothie is getting warm, melting
its aubergine streaking the Ball jar.

It seems to me, with a dozen distractions
I will get nothing written. I want
to believe I need silence, solitude,
to extract the words from the depths
of my secret desires.

Instead, the words are waiting.
Crammed like the train station at rush hour
before a holiday, my heart is stocked full of
words waiting to board the ink of my
screen and tumble into the world.

I send a few emails.
I make a hundred different notes.
I complete job applications.
I copy new recipes.
I write you a letter.

After all this, I am certain there is
no poem waiting in my lungs.
I curl up with a pen, my journal
in hand, and breathe.
In. Out.
Stillness.

In the quiet, a cocoon cracks open.

A butterfly unfurls her wings.

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