A poem is born
By describing what is sensed or seen
And never saying the word it
Without describing what “it” is
The pumpkin pies you made
Baking and playing until two in the morning
With home grown pumpkins
Roasted seed, and ginger
Feeding warm pie by the spoonful
To the lover you’ve awakened
Admiring 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
After transplanting small flowering plants
Who convey their irresistible desires to be potted and loved
After the demonstration at the bank
Calling for corrupt lenders
To hold very long meetings inside federal jail cells
After yoga, and music,
And even an unwelcome creeping sense of paranoia
That emerges of its own accord
And leaves the station on its own schedule
At the end of a good day
A present day
Where pain and stiffness are at a minimum
The mail is taken to the post office
And you approach life and death with hands raised high
In the universal sign of surrender,
And are warmly welcomed home.