Sometimes, emerging from the shower,
a line flits across my mind like a gnat,
and if I don’t snatch it and set it down
where I can see it, it’s gone.

So, toweled and dripping, I let my damp
footprints pad into the nearest room
where pen and paper reside—maybe even
grab the laptop from my office—to record
what’s showing up before it darts away.

This morning, I dripped into the bedroom
with a better opening line for the poem
that began to emerge yesterday.
I knew it wasn’t quite right, but, having
no idea how to fix it, left it alone
to marinate a bit. And today, there it was,
trickling off me as if I’d been caught
in an unexpected cloudburst.

How could I ignore the gift?
How could I not stop and hold out
my cupped hands to catch even a few
precious drops before they dissolved
into the thirsty ground?