The grown-ups sat
drinking wine
speaking of things while
I wandered through
the valley of myself.
I wrote poems in my head
that papered the air.
I rhymed then.
I was catching a ball
finding words that rolled
through the same colors
as if the lawn
were suddenly red
or my skin green.
Did you write poems too
when nothing made sense
except the dog
and words pointed at you
and you had no hands
to respond.
