Living My Poems

Over and over, my poems come to life:
a sound I've described, or an image;
a fleeting thought,
a poem someone else has written
that recalls my own.

The echoes pass back and forth.

And then at night,
walking on a street or in a field,
my mind starts playing
with words,
as if I myself am one;

words that describe
what I see, what I hear, what I’m doing,
even what I’m feeling
in my composition of the world…

like an artist feels what he sees
and, therefore, paints,
a palette that is never finished.

Life goes on for years.