Life has always been filled with poetry.
My father used to recite The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam to us all, his captive family audience, gesturing dramatically to enact the meaning.
When a poem arrives with me, I have around three minutes to get it on paper before it disappears back into the ether. Ideas and words, like butterlies, flit through the mind.
Grab too hard and they disintegrate; too lightly and they slip away.
Always in progress