Poem 22. June 22
It is not even a whisper, the voice I hear.
I do not turn toward it, left or right.
It is not a figure I see in my room, silent,
by the dresser, waiting until I wake to speak
There it is, now telling me poetry
is like minnows in Salt Creek, that peak
moment you saw them escaping the Jeep’s tires, silent,
unseen by the rest of the world. You did not write
that poem. You were not true to yourself, do not fear.
Understand this: a poem comes from a life, your life
& not from some salty buccaneer, harpooning a white
whale in fiction. Perhaps you think there is a stick
in the forest, pointing the way to words, similes—true?
No, it is only a stick pointing toward the sky. You are far
more than what you have written—you are far
more the poetry you have not written. Do
remember the minnows instead of the stick
for they are a found poem their flight
toward life is all they know of life.