The Burned Out Furnace

There it is
deja vu. My moment again,
the flower, rose, orchid of moments,
light filtering through drying raindrops,
the meeting place
of all my deep breaths and sweet sleeps.
I have written about it time after time
splaying out the spectrum of it
and picking at the colors.

Poetry is theater.
You have to have your head about you.
Don't write poems when you are sad.
Don't write poems when the tears are
hammering at your chest.
Those are moments for prayer.