Quicksilver

The sky rains
words today, they
fall silently
translucent
messengers.

So, I say
I'll make me a poem.
Which word
goes first?

Quite audaciously,
quicksilver
with its tinselly smile,
flies backwards
into waiting hands.

I want my poem
to be
spare, light,
float
carry
its own weight.

Quicksilver
is destined
to seek out its
beginning

in my unwritten ode
to the bewildering
present of poetry
unsought.

I woke,
not knowing
day
would gift
me with
lyrical surprise,
tempt
with sultry syllables.

I am fiercely
happy.