Searching for the Poetry of My Heart

Searching for the Poetry of My Heart

Think wild flowers crawling down the bank of the river
in the Spring, Esther Satterfield's soulful songs, a newborn’s heartbeat,
Picture autumn sunsets, sleeping close, coffee brewing.
Odd bits of family china, old photos, a house bustling
with activity. Sweet overlapping sounds of
children laughing and playing.

Imagine my house on the hill, blackened tree trunks in the snow.
The winter moon bouncing on the horizon,
Morning birds resting on the long arm
of the copper beech. Swimming naked in the creek
at dawn. Climbing the Shawgunks.
Wielding my camera whose poetry is addictive.

I feel powerful when I stretch my sense of who I am.
Yesterday, I discovered the supergirl watch
my father bought when I turned thirteen. Happy when I write,
the sleeping dog warms my bare feet beneath my desk.
Clinging to the oracle, I worship at Simic's altar,
Longing to make poetry that soars, I try on many wings.
It's still a fragile web I weave with the poetry of my heart.