Jumping fish and high cotton

It's Spring.

There's Spring in the air,
and a spring in my step.
I'm not staring at the paving, today.
My eyes are cast upwards
at a blue sky,
at the delicate, diaphanous clouds.
I look at your face, at your faces
and in my head is a burbling brook
of freshly thawed words,
the murmurings and beginnings of verse.
Rivulets of words –
worthy of you, of the clouds, of the blue,
worthy of myself, and of the brook –
are hurtling downhill.
"A poem is afoot, Watson!", I say,
and I exhale, and that is aught I can do.
For it cannot be bottled now
not today, nor ever.
For I would have to stop:
Pen and paper damn the flow,
leaving a placid puddle behind
on the forest floor.
But Poetry can't be
shooting fish in a barrel –
that's just permutation.

Soon the moment passes, the day dies
Spring uncoils, swelters,
freezes over and withers;
And the brook – a mere streak
across a lifeless land.

But I don't grieve.
A Poem was written that day
but not by me.
I just happened to be in it.