THE POEM

For private reasons, seriously,
For something at physical intervals,
For an interval of one octave, but
I suppose the passage ten months or so.
I got your coding and its meaning.
I'm aware of the seasons, beloved,
And some bad things with sadness.
Raining outside, the half-open window inside,
It is difficult to know precisely nor intimately,
The very poem we need to listen nearly,
Metaphor never extracts any toll charge,
The sounds almost show themselves in silence.
Sometimes a poem waiting for us,
But we should pound towards it.
It's ours to have. That's it, indeed.

                          May 22, 2021