Poetry

I do not understand how poets
command the beauty of words
to flow freely from pen to paper,
writing sonnets and hymns on how
lovely the light on ladies' brows.

On how the hum of crickets in
the field is the lifesong
of the planet or how
love is a tangible living
thing that builds and kills.

I do not know how to write
this poetry like those poets,
who spend hours dreaming abstract
thoughts about the lives of Men
and Women and the Other.

Perhaps they understand
something which escapes me,
so I shall attempt and here is my try:


I know not how the birds fly,
but how lovely a thing to see.