Again this morning, yesterday while driving, on waking, in the middle of a meeting… How often do the perfect words form? At the most inappropriate times. Leaving you waking to their evaporating memory.
Do you leave it, swirled into mist, unsharable, only a fleeting memory of what might have been? Or, do we hastily make some notes, never capturing the whole, and later spend hours trying to hammer it back into shape. It still looks like the front end of a ’58 Ford, slightly dented, hammer marked, and badly painted.
‘night embrace…’ is not the poem that formed in the night. It’s only the frustration that replaced that captured, then lost, image.