A Cameo Appearance By Andrea Dietrich
It was not the mountains.. those that dwarf us,
the forests that invited our senses...seduced us to stay.
Nor the oceans whose mass we contained within us,
creatures small and large...some we loved and others feared.
Not,
the floating rain, the clouds...kind or angry,
the sky bright or blackboard black,
the falling leaves or those who held on tight,
the multiverse of colors sharp or flat.
NOT...the seasons that in all their glory arrived
or stepped away as their sister or brother took the stage.
Every inch of our untouched world chants to our sensibilities,
the perfect candidate to rule our internal domain.
Life in its all knowing way
has always bestowed us with gifts,
unfolded miracles in our wake,
other times challenged us in a rage.
Our world would take an eon to notate.
Not,
those particles...each made the whole,
stirred our voices...drew from us...song.
We,
are only messengers.
Our words not our own.
Some call it passion, others magic, they also call it art.
Some suggest it comes from the heart.
Whatever you call it, this mystical harbinger
who through us communicates...
it is he, she, responsible for what we loosely term art.
Poetry like all the arts...never began as such...
rather it is integral to just being.
IT is US...
just ask the lady with the pen and pad
writing while driving her car...
it is a part of our existence
...it has always been.
poets would write,
even...
if they lived in a vacuum.
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