by marci madary
I used to be a poet.
I am not sure anymore.
The part of me that lived in the land of metaphor and verse
has been invaded by straight lines and logical thought.
I did have a moment while traveling by air.
I looked down at a field of circles:
groupings of perfectly drawn wheels,
as if by a compass –
tawny brown, shiny green, and earth red.
Laying beneath puffs of precipitation.
I felt the nudge to take out a scrap of paper,
to see what would come out of my pen.
But a list of to-do’s choked
I opened my laptop
and shut the shade.