The Poem Found

Sometimes when I look around,

And well, through my life,

There are just no poems to be

Found, and the sadness, like a

Northern bay fog, rolls in as

Emptiness.

Life is filled with its details,

Mostly unimportant, but somehow still

Devouring,

Filled with repetition and drudgery,

And in that creeping featureless

Landscape, the mind does what it can

Recedes.

Then you cared again, as you always do.

An ordinary act, that was itself

Unordinary,

The mind cracking at its existence,

And there a poem at my feet.