This is not a poem

As requested I will write a bit about myself. I live in a land where two great rivers meet, in a small house outside the gray city, surrounded by neighbors’ trees and my scattered beds of herbs and flowers. I have 13 windows, one for each moon so I watch the world and listen to sounds coming to tell me simple things. In my kitchen I cook for anyone who is hungry or desires good taste. Food is convenient art, disappearing and requiring no studio to hold its canvases. I gather supplies at farmer’s markets or in my yard.

I write poetry in small servings. I get feedback from friends and some readings. I still consider poetry to be an oral art form so the sounds are primary to me. In my heart I am telling stories around a hearth or campfire, hoping my voice and rhythm helps the image stay where it’s heard.

A poem from an earlier May Day project “Iris Revolution” will be included in an upcoming anthology of St. Louis poets. I am being encouraged, pressured by others to start submitting work for publishing. I resist. Once written the poems seem finished to me. I continue to listen as others nudge me to be more public.

I get out and smell the love of language when I can, basking in the poetic vitamins of others’ verses. It makes my writing bones stronger. It reminds me that others value these clotheslines of words where I pin my thoughts to dry.

In the meantime, I ponder how much basil to plant for this year’s pesto predictions. I also need to sand the rough bits off wooden clothes pins and wash plastic mayo jars to make presents for children, the dropping game they love to play when they visit. I have no grandchildren; yet a circle of many ages surrounds me. Someday I may have to lock my front door but never my heart. This week we are watching Eurasian Tree sparrows feed their young outside our kitchen table window.

Echinacea are multiplying, enough to harvest for making tincture and still have plenty to bloom. And carpet of apple mint comes up to the house. Lilies and peonies are rising. Sounds of a wood lathe purr from my basement, sounds of the bearded kind man who shares his strength and love with me for the last quarter century.

I look forward to the full moon later in the week, the icon of all cyclical life, a sky gift freely shared.