Loss of a Poet

The teakettle sings,

toast springs,

I sit with a pen,

stare through the window.

A possum appears

from under the fence.

Two dogs bark.

A rainbow arcs over

strings of houses

like beads on a chain.

A headline above the fold,

like a row of ballerinas on a stage,

lures my eyes.

Poet Maya Angelou Dead at 86

She believed dance

is the closest form of art to poetry –

balance, precision, pirouettes.

My thoughts slope

on a page, words

stumble, fall. So I

lift a cup of tea,

go outside, watch

the clouds, imagine

Angelou’s words

pulling me apart,

forming lines of metaphors,

balanced in the blue.

— t. l. cummings

Shutterstock image.