A Poet’s Dream
Words like world’s fabrics spun.
The fun in touching each one.
I try them on. I find my style.
Spinning the yarn by midnight oil.
I read new and old, easy and hard.
Longevity not in this age; brevity.
Unique, not copying; nevertheless
learning by forms and good poets.
What is a good poet, one asks.
A good poet may be in the making.
I look behind me and find trimmings.
I baste the turkeys and light the candle.
Am I a good poet. I don’t know,
but I do know I have something to say.
It might be heard by one or more.
It’s not for me to say; just write.
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