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a poem is born

I say a poem is born
By describing what you have sensed or seen
And by never saying the word it
Without describing what “it” is
The pumpkin pies you made
Baking and playing until two in the morning
With a home grown pumpkin
And its roasted seed
Feeding warm pie by the spoonful
To the lover you’ve awakened
Seeing yellow squash flowers
Among the riot of purple morning glories
In the fall gardens
Which greet the day
Crows standing pensively
Rocking back and forth on their toes
In black wing tipped dress shoes
Hands intertwined behind their backs
Engaged in a familiar dialogue
About road kill
The harbor
And their diving neighbors, the cormorants.
A black Scottish terrier with white eyebrows
Who jumps into your lap
Rolls onto her back, and says,
“Please rub my belly.”
Which you do, of course,
After up-rooting small flowering plants
That you feel the irresistible need to pot and love
After the demonstration
Calling for corrupt bankers
To hold very long meetings inside federal jail cells
After yoga, and music,
And even an unwelcome creeping sense of paranoia
That emerges on its own timetable
And dissipates of its own accord
At the end of a good day
A present day
Where pain and stiffness were at a minimum
The mail was taken to the post office
And you, a man approaching death with hands raised high
In the universal sign of surrender,
Were truly and warmly welcomed home.