Where Poetry Lives

 

i think i got it all wrong
poetry does not live
in the moon and the stars

it is the gray dove that
sits on the knobby bare branches
of a choke cherry tree
puffed up
warming itself in the
morning sun

the small squirrel
the one with a slight limp
that stuffs its cheeks
full with seeds the sparrows
have dropped in the
grass under the bird feeder

the hissing sound of the
shiny tea kettle filled with hot
water bubbling and bouncing
on the back burner of a
flat top stove ready to
become my morning tea