Writing morning pages
is cream skimmed off the top of
my thoughts, or pond scum.
Writing morning pages
is the pool boy, whose long net
catches leaves and dead bugs.
Writing morning pages
is your hands cupping my face
your eyes deep in mine.
Writing morning pages
is the clack clack of these thoughts
Ding! then hard return.
A flock of haiku for the home stretch of National Poetry Month.
Please let me know what you think of this poem. I love comments!