I love the speed of poetry.
The swift nature of it, read aloud,
racing with the blood.
Then it surprises with soft fluidity,
pausing around the corners.
Poetry can spring forth in a moment.
No waiting in line.
No more than a few moments
are required to give it life.
A few furiously fashioned notes
and there it is!
I feel no guilt for the ease of it.
Its efficiency is part of the magic.
It just comes,
in an instant,
like a magnificent bird flying in my window.
But there it is in all its glory,
preening its glossy feathers on my bedpost.
It sings poetry.
It sings beautifully.
Then I just lean back against the soft pillows,
smile . . .