I’m no poet, no fine words to describe my world.
I’m no Mary Oliver, who speaks of writing as a dance,
while I dance with two left feet, stepping on toes.
I’m no Wendell Berry, whose walks are brought to life,
I walk my dog and picking up poop isn’t poetic.
I’m no writer of love sonnets, or one who sees
the ethereal clouds gliding overhead, the shapes shifting.
Yet, I look out onto this world, where dark images
populate our media and angry voices are heard.
My heart grows heavy and so I turn to my words,
words that are not refined, not eloquent, sometimes raw.
In the heartbeat of the one I love, I hear a sweet poem,
that speaks of communion, of two bodies yearning,
to know where the heart lays and where the soul is one.
No, I’m no poet, just a lover, a poor one at that,
yet, on I continue, in the twilight of life, seeking grace.