And then there’s poets who are artists
And work on their poems
as if they’re cutting gyproc!
They make me cringe!
They put stanza against stanza, as if building a wall,
And see if it’s even, and tear it down if it isn’t!…
All this when the only house of art is all the Earth,
North of Davenport Road and south of it,
so various, well-made always and always there.
I think this not as someone thinking, but as someone breathing.
And gaze toward the neighbour’s flowers and smile…
Who knows if they’ll understand me
Or if I’ll understand them,
But I know that truth is in their petals and in me
And we share a divinity
In allowing ourselves to stay and inhabit the creekside at Winnett
And be held in its lap by contented Seasons
And let the cold wind croon us sleepward
for it’s March here and the wind’s cold
And we haven’t needed dreams for nights now.