Lately, the ideas for poems
have been hidden under mirky water.
I gaze at them,
just below the surface
and think about how I would pull them from the water,
lay them on paper
and rearrange them in the sunshine.
But that is where it stops,
me looking at them just as they are at the surface,
and then I walk away.
Or maybe it is me who is under water
and our worlds are reversed.
They look at me from the clear light of day
and then walk away as I,
pretending I have any say in it all,
slip deeper in to the cool, dark, water.
blue sky infinite 
This is beautiful and sad and brilliant and true. I love what happens at the turn where the relationship between the speaker and their work is reversed from our usual perception that we’re somehow in charge of what comes out. There’s also something melancholic but inspiring about our poems leaving us to go live their own lives.
This is beautiful. I love the turn in perspective between the speaker and their art and who creates what. There’s also something simultaneously melancholic and gorgeous about our poems (written and unwritten) going on and leaving us to live their lives.