I do not write poetry
because
Great dead men on my shelves
have done it
I must be busy with
something that’s mine.
I do not write poetry
because
Birds by the millions fly
north to their own preachers
I must fly to my own east.
I do not write poetry
because
The sun dances in the sky
on a flower-filled day
I must be there to watch it.
I do not write poetry
because
Though the dogs in the yard
Have not bathed for ages
They ask for a hug
and I must give it.
I do not write poetry
because
The wounds of my past
fester now and then
I must be there to bind them.
I do not write poetry
because
The clothes in the wash
say Jesus purged me with hyssop
I must be there to adore Him.
I do not write poetry
because
The father of my children
is the best cook in the world
I must be there to love him.
I do not write poetry
because
The child wants boots
to scale his own mountain
I must be there to free him.
I do not write poetry
at all—
because I live it.