The Middlewesterner

"How," they asked.
The poet said,

"You take great
batches of

nothing and
squeeze til you

hear what it
whispers."

"Do these words
just come to
you," they ask,

"or do you
have to
beckon them?"

The poet says
"Yes," or
the poet says

"The poet says
Yes."

"How many
there are,"

the poet
says, "is

how many
there is.

That's it.
Get over it."

"It's this
simple,"

the poet
says.

"You put
your hand

to it,
and if

it doesn't
kill you,

you get to
keep it."

"The more
I try

to tell
the world,"

the poet
says,

"the more
my thick

skull shows."

"Words, too many
words," the poet

says, "like a swarm
of bees. If they

were bees, they'd make
honey; instead

it's buzz buzz buzz."

"Always
best,"

the poet
says,

"to say
less,

when you
have

that choice."

"Yes,"
the poet says,

"it's
like a cat

stepping
carefully."

"The other half,"
the poet says,

"is sometimes
conversations

God needs to
have with me."

"No, I don't
know where they
come from,"
the poet says.

"I find them
as you would
apples
in a tree."

What a wonder,
to come home

and find that it fits.

The fall of green
night in the chill.

Hours til morning
changes everything.

Daylight.
Fisherman's sky.

Liar's wind.

New day.
Something

is torn loose,
something

newly rooted.

Spring
comes and goes.

Water
runs from snow

to ocean, to
cloud, to rain.

The sky
remains.

Sun
and stones

stay
the gathering

still-
ness.

The drab field
in spring sun,

a promise of
things to come.

Ah, the trees,
the damn-fool trees –

they hug
the earth, reach

for the stars.

There are more birds
than poems, always

more birds than poems.

Mist on the windows.
Mystery in the morning,

that we wake at all.

With every breath
the green air.

Flowers along the road
like a morning storm.