Poetry

Poetry

There's she is, it's Gertrude,
standing on the top shelf
of my bookcase.

She claps her hands,
a cut-out card
held up by her elbow
that rests against the word - poems...

and there's Teddy Chaucer
he's there too
balanced between Shakespeare
and Donald Hall.

Gertrude applauds.
The fan blows cool air
across the room,
vibrates the blinds on the opposite wall.

Poetry is not always available
to share its spirit, it wanders off
to visit the neighbor,
to take out the garbage,
follow an old yellow school bus.

Gertrude applauds.
The poetry waits
till I look back, wonders about me too,
and where I might be,
and I am busy, washing dishes,
folding clothes,
I've gone grocery shopping.

We become like the couple
that pass in the hall.
I sit to write
and poetry stepped out,
is visiting with an old friend.

It's climbing a tree.
I paint myself - an illustration and follow.
Where has poetry gone?
It cracks from an egg,
asks its parent for a worm.

I want to be like poetry
inspired by everything it sees,
dipping, bending round corners
watering mountains, flowing with streams,
and dripping from faucets.

I climb the bookshelf,
sit next Gertrude Stein,
so she can rest her elbow on my name.

Gertrude claps her hands.