A Response

I used to write poetry

for no audience at all,

the lines sent off into space

like speckles of dust

lost in morning light.

The words would alight

off the page and

I’d hope

into you, but

of course they did not.

The frantic rush through darkness

letters tumbled back to me

no dial tone.

Then one grey day

words came rushing through

my own door,

language that fancied

creaking roofs and

softened faces.

And I thought what a thing

to have poetry,

to have words freely rushing in

guided by the morning light.