Where does poetry come from?
Is it birthed in tragedy,
when a heart is broken
and fear darkens a life?
Is it created, when love is found
in that first kiss under the oak tree?
Does poetry only belong to the young
who see colors dance along the mind.
Or, does poetry come from a life full of mystery
where even the smallest grain of sand
is seen as an invitation into stillness.
I am old now seeking to find my poets heart
in the quiet moments of the day.
I listen for that young voice
crying out in my dreams and imagination
seeking words and images
long lost in the whirlwinds of the past.