There is simply no knowing when a poem will
tap lightly on your shoulder and offer to take your bag
(though if wearing a heavy coat you may not feel it)
or utter a sudden mournful cry in your quiet room
or pose a question in a lively conversation
or spring out from the bushes directly into your path
(though if admiring the view you may walk right through it)
or waft in on the breeze with a suggestion of honeysuckle
or the hint of a distant bonfire
or mingle with the salt of your bacon sandwich
or the hidden sour of homemade lemonade.
Yet you will tell me that poetry with its
curious metaphors and unbreakable codes
is only to be found in libraries or on the
dusty bookshelves of another kind of person.
And I shall say that you are already writing a poem
of your own, even though you do not know it yet.