Poēsis

By -
I do not have to rise like you
because you let the light into the room -
does a crysalis released from its cocoon too soon
fly beautiful, fly at all?
I don't want advice 
I am wise to true and sulking clouds -
perfectionism feeds the sabbath feeds the portrait.

I overthought into my blanket last night,
and need to fold myself
in poēsis, 
I will not explain my stillness,  
it is a miracle I will
release over the steam of the kettle -
into a desperate garden.
I will breath damson black-lined
wings around a tea cup,
invisible things in place. 


LJ Ireton, 2024


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