Seeds of a Poem

It’s a quiet thing, a found word
in the stillness of dawn
while dreamers slumber
and the new moon succumbs
to daybreak. A fading thought,
sharp intake of breath
in the long pause

between sleep and wake.
Sometimes it’s a home
stolen by wildfire, flood,
or exorbitant rates.
Maybe dinosaur bones,
a buried tomb, or scarecrow
guarding lavender fields.

Perhaps a dew-drizzled
cobweb, a jonquil, cloud
or song. Most often
it’s your breath,
soft and steady,
promising one more day
in which I will belong.