I never know if I have a poem.
\nIf like a flower bud
\nit\u2019s been nipped by frost.
\nToo little water.
\nIf it started and went to sleep.
\nToo fragile to tolerate despair,
\nrun naked through the brambles.
\nFrightened by the trickle
\nof dreams around it.
\nOr if the words are ready.
\nIf it wants to speak.
\nIf it\u2019s alien without a home.<\/p>\n
Or perhaps poetry
\nis a peculiar kind of fantasy.
\nA reality parallel to ours.
\nSometimes intersecting,
\nsometimes not.
\nBut I listen to sounds in the house.
\nFeel tensions in my body.
\nStare at windows
\nand then, things outside windows.
\nThen a yearning starts.
\nA sigh.
\nI am scared and then serene.<\/p>\n
I balance on a thread
\nof invisible proportions.
\nI think like a poet.
\nChoose forms as silly
\nas they are necessary.
\nTo say as simply as I can,
\nI am alive.
\nI am ready to explode.
\nTo wave my arms.
\nTo join the universe in burning.
\nTo dive into the surf
\nand scare dolphins.
\nA primal force
\nplaying with language,
\nlooking for its planet.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I never know if I have a poem. If like a flower bud it\u2019s been nipped by frost. Too little water. If it started and…<\/p>\n