After the Manner

Someone called me a poet
the other day,
but I don’t know: all
I feel is my
poverty, my
reticence, my
lack.

Still, I wager a
word now and then;
some wheat to the wind.

I’m not sure what
to make of those
seeds I sow, but I
know that any
omens are not my own.

At times words accost me,
and I see fire above,
and cannot but report.

I am not so much a poet,
but after the
manner of Luther,
a beggar.

6 thoughts on “After the Manner

  1. dludolph says:

    Dear poet. The mystery of the Body of Christ being known/found in-with-under the begging of another is perhaps what keeps me re-forming and aware of grace upon grace — thank you.

  2. shoreacres says:

    I don’t think it would be at all inappropriate to suggest that you’re to the manner born. 🙂

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