Sometimes, Life

Sometimes, you write the poem
and only afterwards
do you realize whom it’s for.
Sometimes, you don’t meet the inspiration
until after you finish the work.

Sometimes, your brain
and heart and soul
and all other artistic aspects
of an individual
work in unison
to create something
that those parts cannot understand
and that very something
is brought into being
by the act of imagining it.
Sometimes, life
imitates art.

Sometimes, you cannot comprehend
just what you’re doing
until later,
when time or distance
or a change of perspective
allows you to see
what it meant at the time
and what it means later.

Sometimes, I write a poem
that describes you to a B,
and then,
some weeks later,
do you introduce yourself to me.
Sometimes, I only notice that poem
more weeks later
and glory in the magic.

Sometimes, serendipity.

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