I tried to assemble a book of poems
Then divided it into two books,
Finished one of them,
Got depressed,
Got stalled
And realized ... poetry
Isn't a task, a chore, or a project.
It's a joyful moment,
An ephemeral process of
Reaching up into the ethers
And grasping whatever is there.
Looking at it,
Witnessing it,
Having a conversation with it.
Poems are like birds,
Each with its own flight,
Nest and favorite tree.
Each with its own version
Of Song.
Birds occasionally flock together
On the lawn to gather food
Or fly away for
The winter.
Do poems?
