ohheyian

I try to imagine something more interesting
or at least something that feels warmer
not a poem written on a winter day
but a summer one, written in front of the ocean
listening to a wave crash, not frost crackling
stiff branches bending under wind and snow
lonely dogs in their own apartment
neighbors I’ve never seen, only heard
maybe in one week I can write that kind of poem
from california shores under palm trees
not in a cave looking for meaning in words
drinking old coffee, waiting for something
researching old writers that I might like
hoping that I missed something before I realized
how much of everything there is, and what a needle
finding any meaning will be