Tell Me Something Real

I start to write a poem and she writes me back,

tell me something real she says

and who or what would I be not to listen.

I sit in my kitchen listening to The Mindset Mentor

with the door wide open

letting the late summer air infuse my coffee.

I would let it infuse my blood, but my skin.

My mother called the tree leaves lime green 

yesterday and I wrapped my lips around them.

Fall is waiting by a creek out East, but when she arrives

with her golden leaves, I will move my work

out to the patio and breathe her.

My poem seems to know when it’s time to stop

and a distracting glimmer of sun in my periphery

bouncing off a hanging light is the signal.

You are released from your post now, poem,

go play. Without a need to whip my fingertips,

you are free. You too.