a small, black notebook
on a stand by the bed
filled with poems
that are not quite ready
like pieces of seaglass
with sharp, pointed edges
thrown back to the sea
to be tumbled till smooth
like hard, green tomatoes
saved from the frost
sitting on the window sills
to be warmed by the sun
maybe a rough cut diamond
waiting to be shaped
and highly polished
until it reflects the light perfectly
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