What is a poem?
A poem is a turtle,
withdrawn into its shell,
a “Do Not Disturb” sign hung outside.
A poem is a rock that has seen millions of years pass in seconds,
been a part of the lava floe,
the marble quarry,
the Coliseum,
the river bottom,
and the gravel road.
Sometimes, a poem is a tree,
its winding roots driving deep, deep down,
to drink from the well of souls,
from which all tears and laughter spring.
A poem is a rose,
beaded with dew,
its fine lacework petals catching the light of the newborn sun,
but girt round with thorns to ride forth in battle.
A poem is a candle,
fat and yellow,
oozing wasted droplets like cast-off bits of flesh and bone no longer needed,
growing shorter and shorter as it gets longer and longer,
and a welcome shield against the night.
Or, a poem is a cat,
fat and sly,
with a glint in its half-open eye that says,
“I have always known more than you. I always will.”
A cat in gloves catches no mice,
but has a better grip, perhaps, on poetry.