Poems ✍️

and what at some other time
I’d call a luxury – or others would –

it’s not, it’s – oh – rightness -
used rightly...

like now, aslant in the reclining chair,
the patio door open just enough
to bring air into the room,

March air which feels like the most
precious commodity, substance, gift, grace,
where, how, could I say;

and the book of poetry held loosely,
glanced at occasionally;

some phrases, some words, of Tom’s
growing timelessly, flowering,
seeding a generosity of new poems
too formless to call mine

but the warmth of his heart
makes mine to expand, and

boundless now; the mind too, boundless;
a boundlessness of poetry;
then, now, always; so that

in this moment, heart, mind, poetry, boundless,
there’s complete liberation;
beyond luxury, beyond necessity

and poems may or may not be,
for being’s all…