by Cristina Norcross
It starts with a yellow circle
that hovers and drifts –
a dandelion spiraling in the wind,
waiting for able hands to catch it.
A word appears,
then a voice repeats the sound,
until my hands find paper
and capture that first, fleeting image.
The pull of the poem is irresistible.
It is a literary addiction –
an affliction that will not leave me alone
until I write down the bones of it –
until my pulse ceases to race from the thrill
of following that elusive yellow circle,
teasing with the promise of completion.