I had tea today with lost poets.
I let them lay across my lap
as sun streamed in
to warm my back.
Yellow pages not turned in years
softened between my thighs.
And I listened
while ghost words came to life.
As I spoke them aloud
Emerson landed at my knees,
flowed down my shins, my feet,
went up and over freshly painted toes.
I thought: What a lovely contrast;
light pink polish against an arrangement
of red and orange Gerber daisies.
It was the Music of the poem
I was trying to hear.
But somehow it disappeared
when the finches flew away.