I met myself down by the creek
quarter past 10 am on a cloudy day
that’s how I planned to start this poem
I wanted to give life to my energy by words
but none seemed to fit
I cried when I tried
words really did fail me this time
they abandoned me
maybe they were tired of me and this was their last testament to my novice poet spirit before giving up on me
But I knew what it was
I knew that this is what poetry is
the road to no destination
at the end of that road that leads me to know what being is
that place where words don’t exist but everything else does,
fully, sumptuously, deliciously, warmly
without thought
without effort
without essence
just a pure flow that knocks in my stomach
travels up your chest and down to my toes
and up my brain to rearrange my thoughts
poetry is the clothing I give to this flow
sometimes tattered, often mismatched, hand me downs from letters and thoughts
rarely new but the outfit always fits and looks like me
my signature flavor of style
it demands nothing, it has no rules
it meets my gaze with my passion
it lets me move by staying still
it calls upon my mouth through my soul
it is and I know it
for honor is what I want to give it
purely, truthfully, lovingly, longingly, endlessly
there is no end to me because it calls on me still after we part
the ringing of its call so familiar
it induces a scramble for my notebook and pen so I can answer it
sometimes it dances at the edge of my thoughts
inviting me to put the pen down and dance with it
I, a hopeless two left feet dancer, how could I possibly match her prowess
to glide and move with grace, flow, and freedom
she asks me to surrender and I do
I let go and I dance
time becomes smaller and my mind more spacious a ballroom
in the infinite I find the finite, and in the finite I taste the infinite
the gift wraps itself with no frivolous bows and ribbons
for the box can never be the right size
and now you don’t have a poem to read
only my attempt to give life to my energy
