(Substitute any of the above three words as you see fit. You’re part of this now.)
“Maybe”, it will be like poetry finds me
In scraps floating across my dreams,
Or at dawn when the world is quiet
And waits for me to turn it tangible.
“Maybe” I’ll live in the notes of birdsong,
Or the barely audible marching of ants,
“Maybe” the sunset will wish it had taken more photos
When I’m not in front of the lens.
If you spend a life soaking up tiny joys
“Maybe” those tiny joys soak you up in turn.
And every sound in nature is a name recited
Of those who knew how to have wonder.
– Sara Myriad