Poem – 1

Even as I sat down to write a poem
somebody placed a hand on my shoulder.
And tried to read.
I turned around.
There was a crack in the wall.
I started writing again.
I could hear a moan.
I turned around again:
the tree in the wall was shedding its leaves.
The books on my table were leaning
towards the tree to catch the sound.
My hand had flung itself.
It was swinging in the air
trying to perch on a branch.
I continued to sit, my eyes shut.
I could hear the tree call out.
I arranged the handful of words
I had in my memory
near the river running through the wall.

When I opened my eyes, I saw
the river running through the paper.

I could not write the poem.

POEM - 1