Poem

I did not find 

the poem I needed: 

angry, soulful, 

sassy, proud. 

I found a poem 

for my best friend’s daughter, 

and one for a classmate’s 

melancholy job. 

I found a poem 

about a cafe 

where I had convalesced, 

listening to “Sweet Georgia Brown” 

played by a brass band 

and a poem 

about the streets of Rome 

that I have hobbled across 

in shoes too new 

and tight. 

I found a poem 

for my oldest daughter, 

sweet 

and full of words 

I dare not whisper, 

and far too many poems 

about birds. 

I did not find 

the poem I needed, 

though I searched through 

snowy woods at dusk and 

purple mountains majesty 

and even blackest nights 

laid bare. 

I found a poem 

about the emotions found only 

at the edge of the ocean 

and a poem about 

the music a city makes, 

and one about desert stars 

that was also about death. 

I found poems about love: 

new love, old love, 

lost love, found love.

But I did not find 

the poem I needed. 

Perhaps it is still being written. 

Maybe you 

have just picked up 

your pen.