There's poetry to every day, both sublime and particular.
But it's clear as a stream by Savannakhet:
Not everyone gets to appreciate this.
And among those who do, there are those far from a pen,
and there are those who haven't the words, with regret.
Perhaps they've fled or fallen between some unremarkable crack
or, lamentably they were never truly ours to begin with.
Some days, we see a thousand poems in a minute,
while on occasion, we've found one poem, but miss another
for looking the "wrong" way.
So, what we get is what we get.
There's a few days poems come along like a hummingbird in Hemet,
or we stumble upon them, snoozing lazily among our books and brushes
and we're tempted not to rouse them in their beauty.
Typically, we don't see the poem before us right away.
They like blind spots.
It takes time before we recognize them properly,
so many like slick pa tep slipping between our ink nets.
A poem about today like this one isn't talking about this today,
but a today that's already passed, laughing like the Mekong
on its merry way to the Atlantic, thinking I didn't see it, with a wink
insistent on its humble simplicity.