Out Loud

There stands a fat robin

on the limestone rocks

outside the window.

And on the tip of the

highest branch of

the peach tree

sits a hummingbird

that rises to do

a sky dance and settles

back down again.

There now is

a rusty red fox so casually

trotting down the

driveway into the

forest of words on my page.

How can these works of

nature make

my heart flutter up like

a single flapping wing?

Here I go again saying

this flower and that tree

or that whinnying pony

make me  so happy.

Isn’t it enough that I’ve

marveled and swelled

before and before that?

Is it necessary to do

ii one time more?

But that’s like saying

I prayed last Wednesday

and so I won’t open my mouth

again today or tomorrow

or next week.

Poetry rides in the flow

of blood that curses

through my veins.

It speaks in the

wind that tosses

the leaves

and blows the clouds

this way

and that.

It’s a matter

of

everyday

life

saying itself

out loud.