Here I sit, empty.
No poem comes to me.
Stirred, I go in search
of a verse to pluck.
But on what kind of tree does
a poem grow? Our garden
offers plenty of possibilities:
pine and oak,
beech and maple
spruce and hemlock.
Each one of these spirited trees is
ripe with grace and
rife with peace.
I settle, conversing with trees.
And even if no poem should arrive,
I’ll be succored by the sight of leaves aloft,
and trunks holding up the sky, my eye now
soaking in the chlorophyll filtered light,
inciting wonder, if not a poem.
What will come of all
of this poetry:
they fill the white space
or will it consume
Q now an O, a
bite taken out of it; a
t now an l, the ‘–’
I remember well a poem
I wrote in grade nine, published
in an education column in the Edmonton Journal. It was
sent in by Mrs. Massing, my Language Arts teacher, and cut
out by my modestly proud mother, who pasted it
on the inside door of the food pantry,
only to be seen by certain eyes, and
gone now, save in this memory:
my chewing on it,
its chewing on me.
So many poems, and
a good number of them
Refusing decorative decency, they
ravage good sense.
Some of these poems