I came to your work very late
and had no reason to expect
that it would be waiting.
We might say the sun
had already gone down,
and it’s true your back was turned.
Would I have been embarrassed
to admit your last collection
was all I’d read?
We have to start somewhere
I suppose, there are no rules
of metaphor to follow.
I choose for you to smile as
you are writing now.
Let’s count backwards together
and one by one
return to your juvenilia.
Then I’ll see where I am.
Wood Bee Poet 