I found a poem beneath a chair
And wondered who had placed it there
Well- chosen words revealed a part
Of ardor from the poet’s heart
And read by me, as if by chance
Gave the poet some significance
But I believe the words we speak
Are like the ripples on a pond
When after speech, the surface calms
Changes occur from underneath
Below the surface, where no one sees
The words fulfill their destiny
And I believe the song we sing
To trees and birds and little things
Is somehow carried on the air
Translated into summer breeze
Comes back to us unrecognized
In music of the wind-tossed trees
But just in case I might be wrong
About those ripples on the pond
I write these words with pen and ink
I try expressing what I think
I fold this poem into a square
And tuck it underneath a chair