The poems come in bursts
like gusts of wind
or a sudden rain shower
words spilling onto the page
coming from who knows where
your heart, perhaps,
or some other place
inside you
that's kept under lock and key
inaccessible 99% of the time
except on those days
when without knowing how
without understanding why
the key finds its way
into your hand and
you can unlock the box
and watch the page
beneath your pen
fill with words--
words you didn't expect
you'd ever find inside yourself
and you inhale a breath
and exhale words
and by the time
you take another breath
the wind has died down
the shower has ended
the box is locked again
and you wonder
at the miracle
you just experienced--
the magic of poetry,
the mystery of words.
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