In the Air

He nods at my notebook,
"You write?"
 
I feel my brows furrow
"Since I was in kindergarten.
 
started with the alphabet
then put 'em together
  to make words.
then sentences

eventually came paragraphs
  those were tough, but
 
I think I managed to mastered them."
 
He doesn't balk at the subtle
   sarcasm,
a small smirk buds at the corner
  of his lips, "I meant,
do you write poetry?"
 
"Poetry?"  I shake my head
raise a brow at  his audacity to think
  I write poetry.

"No...
  *sigh*
             No...I    *sigh*
                           I breathe
                                          poetry.
 
I hear, taste, smell, see,
         touch poetry.
 
but write poetry?
                            No.
I would never be so presumptuous."
 
"Well then," he pulls out a chair,
     settles in, "you've peaked my interest,
 
what does poetry sound, taste,
                    smell,  look and feel like?"

I sized him up for a moment
   deemed him worthy

"it sounds
    like the musical serenade of the cicadas;
 
 it tastes
    like copper from a bloody lip;

 it smells
    like salty ocean waves lapping at the shore line;
 
 it looks
    like the wrinkled old eyes of a lover's gaze;
 
 it feels
    like distressed furniture -- smooth in spots -- rough
                     in others."
 
"Hmm..."  he sat back -- thought-filled eyes
         staring into nothing;
As the cloud passed he looked up at me,
   smiled
"The cicadas
                    really do
                                   sound
quite beautiful
                      tonight."
 
"Yes; yes they do."  and we sit
          silently breathing in the poetry
                                        surrounding us.