my teeth pressing gently on the inside of my bottom lip,
like the word l o v e on the tip of my tongue
and I'm struck, suddenly
with the beauty of the world in front of me,
the trees framing a sandstone structure
their long limbs decorated with clumps of green far into fall.
poetry doesn't seem like poetry when it happens, but instead after
when it hits you
like a pull,
or maybe a punch to the gut.