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Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth writing poems down,

The spontaneous sort that one need only observe the world to know.

Listening to the neighbours laugh, for example, is fair game

For catching in a phrase, should the right words come to mind.

Or that certain slant of light that Emily Dickinson knew was God

On winter days, or the quiet noises of trees and breathing that shush one to sleep–

Any and all moments are there to transcribe

Into a language of remembrance

But what is for abandoning, for living and letting go?

What is for remembering, for giving as a poem?

My neighbour has stopped laughing, has left, has given my night

Thought and pause. I have given only witness to her delight,

Yet whether I pencil out the sound of her voice or not

My testimony lives, for having listened and known.

 

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