Well, actually, I don't know why it does. Except that capturing moments does seem to be an intrinsic way of poetry.
Except for Monday night. Monday night, it really didn't tye into the moment at all. Also, I have to usually try to remember a poem that would fit suitably for whatever occasion I'm trying to fit to poetry, (or go look it up on google. handy invention, the internet. makes me lazy.). This time it came of it's own volition, and I have no idea why. I was sleeping, poetry was probably the last thing on my mind.
'K. So. Monday night I could.not.sleep.well. Toss turn, too hot too cold, the beds too short the blanket's twisted (and in between drift in and out of sleep). I must've fallen asleep finally, 'cus I remember waking up enough to know I was awake and that I would be asleep again soon, and then "out of the black night" as it were, this poem.
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
"That's weird," I thought. And then, "This is going to be funny tomorrow." And then I went back to sleep. I was right. It was funny Tuesday morning, when I remembered. I had to laugh. Such a random thing to think at three o'clock of a morning.
I don't think I remembered the whole thing, because all I remember is so much depending on the red wheelbarrow.
I think it I must be subconsciously wanting a wheelbarrow. Or needing one. Maybe chickens?
p.s. the poem's by William Carlos Williams, if anyone is wondering.