Real Poems

I thought I was a poet
until I read some of the real stuff
in Poetry last night.
I started silently reading the first poem
on the first page, lines 1, 2 and 3
were fine, easy, quick. At line 4,
all four lines combined into music,
then a symphony of words as lines
5 through 12 joined in.
I was breathless and read the
poem again, this time aloud,
and again, and today, again.
I did this with the next three poems,
re-reading them over and over,
and feeling the lilt of their rhythm
on my body, my face, my tongue.
I lay down on the bed, falling into
a dream of my poems growing up
one day and becoming real poems,
just as seeds grow into beautiful
flowers that bloom in
summer’s sun.