When You Surrender

And while I do not

remember the intricacies 

of his answer to her 

question of, "how do you

know when a poem is finished?"

I do remember mine to 

him later that night,

and to her in the morning.

"It is when you surrender."

In at least both of those

meanings, I suppose.

The cool milky scent of

my skin - from taking 

the air on my morning

walk across the bridge

across the river - ran down 

my face to my belly and

thighs, to my feet and my

toes in hot rivulets of 

water cascading over all my 

fleshy body from the shower

nozzle overhead.  And all

that beauty and all that 

memory was relived again

in its flow to the drain.

And a smiled a sigh.

Remembered.

There.  That is finished.