Will You Write Me? I can't see them or hear them or smell them, But I know they're there: Unwritten poems, waiting for some poet to give them form. There's one at the end of that row of trees, Leading my gaze off into vague infinities Of memories and daydreams. And there's another lying in the gutter with that old tennis ball, Perhaps reminiscing about better days and laughing children While mourning the glory that was not to be At Wimbledon. And there are always several up in the sky, Floating around with the birds Or the clouds Or the stars. They wait, unseen, unheard, Until the right poet approaches. Then one will leap into the writer's brain, Or maybe sneak in on foggy cat feet And slowly make its presence known over time. I'm usually not the poet they want. But now and then I am honored When one does choose me. -- Tom Digby First draft 22:11 08/07/2003 Revised 14:30 08/09/2003 Revised 17:52 08/14/2003 Revised 13:40 10/04/2003