Maybe the poem will be strong as an ox
and carry us all the way home.
Maybe the poem will be small as a mole,
a field mouse hidden in a meadow.
Maybe the poem will sing like a whale.
Maybe the poem will turn into a frog when kissed.
Maybe it will be soft as mist.
Mysterious as fog. As white as snow.
The wind will blow but the poem
will not falter. It is solid as a rock.
Hard as ice. Fit as a fiddle.
Maybe the poem will be nice
to have around, like cozy slippers, or a friendly cat.
Maybe it will forget to wear a coat and hat.
Maybe it will catch a chill. Take ill.
Grow old and frail.
Maybe the poem will elude the hunters
one more year, but every poem
draws a final—inhale—