Poets Bloom On Shaky Ground

It wasn't so late
In the afternoon
When I wandered   -- the familiarity of our rooms -- 
Avoiding the lazy cats
Lounging, languishing -- albeit somewhat lavishly --
And sometimes loudly, like landmines,
I stooped to pick up
Our love notes.
Strewn --
On tables,
             Others on chairs,
And those that had blown
To the ground like
October's leaves.
Touching these crisp,
Wrinkled traces
Of our stories,
Our missed
And misplaced moments,
It was then I realized :
I have never felt
More alive
Than when
I am touching these dead things --
These crumpled leaves.
Knowing that the best
Is always ahead of us;
Because even though
Poets bloom on shaky ground,
Even now, I can't stop singing
Our song.