Death of the Metaphor

Writing the perfect, peaceful poem
usually requires undisturbed time
at a desk in a well lit room–
without perhaps what readers
might imagine to be that cool jazz
and scent of lily filling the room,
or that sun sphere, retiring
from a busy day, illuminating
the masses, that must be casting
its long rays across that imaginary
forest viewed through my frosted window
while the poem glides
ever so gracefully through
the ink onto the page.

No, chances are, the day
is slightly chaotic, the writing
fraught with fidgeting forays
into clunky language describing
landscapes and sounds,
none even remotely close
now except for maybe
my photo album from
the trip to Alaska seven years ago
or the sucking noise of the vacuum.
.
And then, a long delay
in writing when incessant
distractions subside, and I
foolishly check my email
and find a pompous demand
from a zealot and my emotions
spin, allowing anger to murder
the serenity of the blossoming
Lapland Diapensia
or the perfect metaphor
rising from the frozen tundra
leaving only
memories of that flat tire
three hundred miles from Tok.
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