I’m No Poet

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.

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