Poetry begins in the earth, emerges
in the clear dark water from the mountains,
so I, wanting to know the sunlight on my back
and feel the cool slap of water on my feet,
will take these strong spring currents and
weigh them against the steady words of the heart.
There is a moment that follows the writing
of every good line of poetry, the kind
with roots deep in the breath.
(Breath, that perfect image of poetry:
dialogue is breathing, a conversation between
winds of air briefly adopted by lungs,
changed and reflected back to the world,
maybe to disappear, but sometimes
to join in the currents of some storm
that blows in, changing everything.)
Line after line the poem is forged through listening;
so take these words and weigh them against
the strong spring currents and maybe
catch a glimpse of them as they pass,
floating atop the buoyant power residing in the voice.
This is not the time for poems of happy love –
this is the time for poems to set the heart on fire
and in those flames reveal the uncharred remains
of what could not be burnt.