Accidental Poem

I saw poetry in everything today.
The rock at the entrance of the grocery store,
everything.
I thought of your dad's book.
Of commenting on it.
Of sitting on a stump and reflecting.
Of penning what is coursing through my veins.
Ink.
Jotting it down.
But I don't know if I will have the time,
if i will find it,
if i will make it.
Everything has color, is alive.
I'm not euphoric; I'm kind of melancholy.
Enough annoys me. And yet
everything is rising with the yeast of poetry.
I'm just compelled. It comes in spurts.
I should get going.
Dishes need scrubbing.
Faster scrubbing.
Floor needs sweeping.
Faster sweeping.
Poetry is waiting at the back door for a kiss.
I may get to it.