Chasing Poems

They’re everywhere, these poems

in the scent of strawberries mingled

with onions

as we cruise down a country road.

They’re written on the scraps of paper

that litter my kitchen counter

half-written recipes

and nameless phone numbers.

They’re in the trees and bushes

of my neighbor’s yard

just beyond sight

calling out in fluty bird voices.

They’re in the sweetness dripping

down my chin

as I bite into the first

ripe peach of summer.

And they are woven in the touch

of that four-year-old

whose fingers have just found

mine.