Writing

I write my poems by talking to the wall.
The words appear like magic
on the screen.

The fingers that sweep the walk
reduce my words to symbols.
These redeem
and work another magic.

What I've seen
and done and can remember
reappear,
but in a different form.

The Bartlett pear I ate to quench my thirst
becomes a tree
that bears a golden fruit;

and in the tree
are nested baby birds
that grow and fledge
and flee
before the storm;

and with the storm comes darkness
and the rain
that after heat refreshes.

Drained
of memory and image, I remain
still seated at my desk
while pages print.