What to write, what to write

Ah well, the day is young,
so I take a walk
along this well-beaten path,
my typical pondering stroll,
scanning the environs for ideas —

a sudden gust of wind
bows down a willow tree
across my path,
perhaps a sign
that I should write about
my breakdown years
and cry me a riv —

a black cat tears across my path,
but I know that a black cat is just
a black cat —

as I trip and stumble,
fall with great force
face forward toward the ground,
throw my arms out
and instantly think of you,
wrapping them around you . . .

So much is luck, the way inspiration
arrives, perhaps
as a tree whose thousand tears
come with a loving face-plant
that feels like a kiss from you.

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