March Project

on being a poet


the wonder of it all
shaping language to hatch
& re-hatch the pallor of a sparrow,
bush turkey compressing leaves

to see the poem just right, to catch
the underbrush of a metaphor
before it is lost in uncut grass

the ancient burning patience
one needs to track a poet’s last winter,
or hold summer voices in your
hand. bundle them into your backpack

to be stung by words like a bull-ant,
staying in the woods to feel the shape of it

or perhaps dwell in the oval of a new phrase,
where your children used to play, their tiny spirits
whirling round, running out of a last stanza

they circle round and round
throw their wishes down. hear a gifting
sound – ah-tishoo, ah-tishoo?

then suddenly it all takes shape,
holds court, sparrows out, kingfisher rare.
it could be a forest call, or as loud as leaf fall;
a fine thing like cornucopia

unforgettable lines
sunning themselves as bees
in forsythia

Helen