As a poet

I am not someone
with something to say,
rather I have found,
a process that brings words to the page.

Wild birds have no time in a cage
to draw upon, but worms when the ground
oozes after rain, say,
in the afternoon, not one

has a need to write
poetry or a song in order to eat.
It does not matter that I
cannot fly. If I am bad

or good or happy or sad,
I can read. I can write. I
have learned to listen. My feet
may move in dance all night,

but from the many flaws I have,
alone in the morning, the little man
within me, seeks
to get free, and speaks.