And then I have many text files, too. Here is a poem I wrote more than 20 years ago about a short vacation when I became very interested in birds and really decided to become a birder. With the help of several local Audubon Societies, I did so.
PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE
A very small hard-bodied bug falls
from the lamp onto my shirt.
A dainty purple aster, tough to identify,
lies on the table, milky sap oozing from its stem.
The sound of someone else's pen
(the clock, the noisy clock)
that humming in my ears, when a thought
brings a rush of blood to the head.
Stretch out the legs, the muscles,
as when kicking while swimming;
think of the flicker flying overhead
his call unexpectedly soft, high-pitched and sweet.
Yesterday, a teacher was killed by a driver who made
"erratic lane changes" according to a witness,
and was drunk, though as an assistant district
attorney he should have known better.
When I took the corn cobs outside to the trash
after dinner, the thrasher warbled from a bush-top
while three goldfinches, tipped upside down,
stuffed themselves with seeds.
A single orange opuntia flower
blooming past its season, almost hidden by dry weeds:
in this place of dust and dry foliage
only its color gives it away.
What was that funny phrase that made us laugh?
June Hopper Hymas (unpublished)
I have just broken this into stanzas and it fell quite gracefully into four-line ones, except for that rogue last line. OOPS! This never went up last night, so here it is!