They’re everywhere, these poems
in the scent of strawberries mingled
as we cruise down a country road.
They’re written on the scraps of paper
that litter my kitchen counter
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