go down to the river
on a cool may morning
with the mourning doves cooing
in the branches of the
broadleafs that flash white and
gold as they sway in
the sunrise, hear the water
burble and babble like a
newborn in the arms of
its mother, smell the dew
droplets on the drooping glaives
of grass, see the fish
sashay and pirouette under the
glittering surface of the water,
and know the truth like
mist hovering over the surface:
they write poetry too.
take your seat in the
red felt rocking chair with
a volume in hand after
supper, bask in the warm
yellow glow of the table
lamp next to you, taste
the last vestiges of chicken
and potatoes on your tongue,
smell dessert baking in the
kitchen, hear the gentle conversation
and laughter all around, and
see the truth hovering in
front of you like mist
floating in through the window:
a poem is a meal too.