October 8,  2020

LIMITED  EDITIONS

 

Poems  arrive not as steam engines in movies –
huffing and puffing – as they slide to a stop  -
on silver tracks - into the station of my mind.
No,  they fall from trees like autumn leaves,
red, orange, yellow – sometimes with black dots –
better spot them - better jot them down -
while they are still on the sidewalk
in front of my  house – before they crumble
and break apart or blow down the street
and get stuck in hedges or in the gutters of my roof.

 

© Andy Costello, Reflections 2020