My Almost-Poem

Snuffed, like a candle by the weeping wind, your tendrils drift

Unchained, unwoven, melody of mist on silver sage

Un-etched in ink against a blotted page

Where do you rove, oh, dear and darling wisp?

The echo of a moment almost kissed

Have you found for yourself a home, sweet home?

Do you fly now; free as a kite with no string

Or did you plummet to the dirt like a bird with a broken wing?

Will you be a vagabond, forever to roam?

Are you happy; my dear, darling almost-poem?

I would have held and shaped you, sweet shadow-thought

But you slipped away beneath my glance

Melting to the brawny breeze, now you dance

Far from my touch; or have you perchance been caught

And by the pen of another poet, taught?

© Janet Martin