by Anne Babin
I feel a poem coming on.
The words are tumbling in my brain
and whirling in the space of thought,
so I must write them down. I ought
to keep a pad and pencil near,
for when I feel a poem coming on.
I feel a poem coming on.
The meter stirs my blood; the rhythm
makes me want to tap my foot
and dance, responding to the music
that I hear inside my head and heart
when I can feel a poem coming on.
