On days like this
The poet has to trick himself
The tongue unfurls like Spring's hand
In the garden.
But everywhere weeds abound.
What is a weed, but an unwanted flower?
My poetry is full of surfaces,
Mirrors that deflect and distract
From the emptiness,
A moebius strip that lacks
A dimension or two.
Maybe that's why I keep coming back
To the ocean, writing of waves
Rising and falling, trying to dive
Deeper, and touch ground down
Among mollusks and sea stars
In the unexplored black.
Maybe there, I can find meaning
Or whatever it is that poets
Spend lifetimes looking for.
Some poets write in cryptic
Hints woven between words
That carry like a boulder the history
Of this imperfect world.
And some poets splash around
In sheer delight
Leaping from images vivid and vivacious,
In a long, exhuberant chain.
I am somewhere in between,
A little lost stumbling towards poetry
And towards myself.
Here is a garden of weeds carefully-tended.
Here is the ocean full of survivors.
And here is a poem pieced together
From fragments of a broken mirror.
It still glimmers; it still cuts deep.