I think of all the poems written today,
the million blinking cursors on illuminated screens,
the fingers soft atop the plastic keys.
I think of the pen scratching on the page
arranging permanent, symbolic stains
with intention and ink.
I think of the high school freshman
and his reluctance to rhyme
one syllable at a time,
then I think of the old pro arranging lines
while overlooking the sea, or love,
or some other vast, mysterious thing.
I think of all the titles
and the structure and the grammar.
I think of all the antsy verbs,
jumping from line-to-line
and the seductive adjectives
whispering secret, erotic details.
I think of the subjects
and the objects
and the inexhaustible forms of expression
coming from the many and varied minds
finding ways to speak
about the invisible truths through which we move.
I think of every poet, everywhere,
enduring the pain of labor –
the shaking, sweating mess of it all.
I sense their longing to create
and become aware of what we share
and what we fear and what we are all trying to say.
Make room for wonder.
Love a little.
And let yourself be loved.