Lifespan

I love the way my poem lives.
With every reader, meaning shifts
as strangers’ eyes unwrap my gifts.

It never reads quite how I planned;
like diamonds in a sunlit hand,
it all depends on where they stand.

Some embrace my grasp of form.
A few behold a unicorn
while others read it with a yawn.

For days it holds its little place
and speaks its lust, its grief, its grace
but then, a truth I have to face:

it swiftly slides far down the thread,
falls off the page. I know it’s dead
but new lines bubble in my head

so look for laughter in my eyes.
Get ready for a sweet surprise:
I love the way my poem dies.