Why Can't I Write Poetry Anymore?

My Grandmother sings with an irish accent 
her voice warbles, wrinkly and warm
sweet as a bird's song,
and a hearth in the heart of autumn
My grandmother signs in the room next to me

Can I describe this thing that beats like wings

That steps with every fall of my feet

That sits in my rib cage and sings

What is this thing that flutters when I sleep?

Can I describe this thing played out in keys 

Hands held in tight conversation
tongue bitten in sweet concentration
Sticky piano fingers
stretched out like rainforest frogs
and my rainbow toes
pressed up against the body of the thing

Just to feel your heart beats