Maggie Flanaganwilkie Poet I do not know?

Movement

There's inspiration in a leaf, the sun 
the sky, a newborn baby's hungry cry, 
the politics of men, the art of zen; 
it's in his eyes, the robin tugging worms 
that brings us spring, an empty backyard swing, 
the price of gas, the passion of a soul 
who's reaching out for dreams that never come 
guilt free; a single rose, a mother's grief 
for sons and daughters lost before their time, 
your friends and mine, the coupled grace that dwells 
where hearts know love, the cooing of a dove, 
in winter's white-washed face, an eddy's spin, 
the colors ending summer's shading green, 
in haunting longings that deny a face 
its smile; it's in the quest for inner peace, 
loblolly Georgian pines that carry tunes 
of singing frogs that brings your mind back home; 
you'll find it in a bite of birthday cake, 
your father's wake, a graduation's pomp 
and circumstance, the solitary dance 
of someone's loneliness and private tears, 
the hell from raging fears; it's in the wind, 
the moon and evening stars, and in the end, 
it's essence is the breath of memory. 
In life is where a poet finds his words.

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