I am going to tell you a secret.
I write a poem in a second,
in a heartbeat.
My life is too fast to be composed,
too light to be weighed.
It is a feather that refuses to land.
A raindrop that never hits earth.
It is the nature of my soul.
In everything else I wear shoes.
I laugh and weep.
I am anchored and confused,
but in a poem I am free,
a rope without knots,
a shadow that belongs outside,
love that kisses without thought.
So my poems belong to nothing,
and everything.
They are exhaled breath
coming from my heart.
Once, I thought,
from the sheer love of poetry,
I could compose a line,
and I worked and thought,
and felt my heart break,
my hands grow numb,
my eyes mist over from a storm.
I could not write.
I could not compose.
I was a bird with broken wings
inside a cage,
listening to the world,
calling and unable to go,
until one day I found the door open.
I saw the immensity of space.
I heard my name from a distant door
and I flew without thinking,
felt the joy of openness
and going everywhere.
I found a place for my song,
resounding off sky,
off trees,
off faces,
and so telling,
I give you my secret.
I do not write poetry,
it simply comes, a cherished companion.