What do you do with a poem?

What do you do with a poem?

 

What  do you do with a poem

 

That tiptoes

 

On bare feet to your rumpled bedside

Stares quietly at your shuttered eyes

 

Stares

until you feel the question

 

And open your eyes

To sort silhouette from shadows, asking

 

Why have you come?

 

 

What do you do with a poem

That cannot sleep and has no answers

Whose breath falls on your face

In suppressed sighs

Sweetly pleading . . .

 

Do you command it back

To the land from whence it came

Close the door and follow sleep

into familiar caverns of dream?

 

Do you carry it down

To the red leather couch, share a blanket and

Work out small, hushed syllables 

Under moonlight?

 

Or do you, like me,

Scoop it up

To rest on your own impressionable pillow

Curl your body like a cocoon

around its warmth, thinking,

           

I will hold it until morning.

 

--christa wells