A Poem is Born

A poem is born
By describing what is sensed or seen
And never saying the word it
Without describing what “it” is.
Admiring yellow squash flowers
Among the riot of purple morning glories
In the gardens which greet the day.
Crows standing pensively
Rocking back and forth on their toes
In black wing tipped dress shoes
Hands intertwined behind their backs
Engaged in a familiar dialogue
About roadkill
The harbor
And their diving neighbors the cormorants.
Transplanting small sprouting vegetables
Who convey their gratitude for soil and love.
After a demonstration at the bank
Calling for corrupt lenders
To hold very long meetings inside federal jail cells.
After yoga, and music,
And even an unwelcome creeping sense of paranoia
That emerges of its own accord
And leaves the station on its own schedule.
At the end of a good day,
A present day,
Where pain and stiffness are at a minimum,
The mail is taken to the post office,
And you approach life and death with hands raised high
In the universal sign of surrender.
Welcomed home
By the lover you’ve awakened
Eating pumpkin pie made with home grown pumpkins
Roasted seed, and ginger.
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