When Asked Why I Write Poetry

I say: because the sea urchin, cracked
and forgotten, reveals glistening
cathedral arches

because crows sorrowing
on the fence for a brother
felled by a farmer's shot
teach the meaning of black

and from waves I learn
of rattle and release

because the dragonfly that rests
with its wings open compels me
to speak of vulnerability

and the marjoram in my garden
beads itself into spicy splendor

because my hands
take on utilitarian beauty
wringing out a wash cloth

because each step is praise
to movement

because the one-pound fawn
cut from its dead mother's stomach
breathes

and the scent of a single violet
crushed underfoot is drenched
salvation

Appears in chapbook, What Brings Us to Water.

Poetry	The Bells of Summer	Cookie Bakers	Tamarack	The Theory of Everything
When a Miracle Speaks	When Asked Why I Write Poetry