For years I’ve walked the little city blocks
filled with houses square and oblong,
small, large, and tiny hermit crab shells
I’ve listened to the birds fill the spring morning
and evening with their songs,
and I’ve heard their echoes
There is a canopy,
a corridor of brick
and vinyl, slate,
asphalt, grass, and concrete
Pythagorean ratios and integers
float in this air;
A Vitruvian reverberation smacks
the dome of this humid atmosphere
and rounds out all these hard lines
of living and life
and our round hermit crab shells
tighten, send us out and beyond
and into the next.
not yet abounds.
darkness and quiet.
dirt, water, sun.
Breathe. Howl. Shine.
but not yet
Poems are meanings,
attempts at meaning-making,
successes and failures and in-betweens.
Sometimes we are alone.
Sometimes we hear our children
use phrases like, “outside of Time and Space.”
These kinds of poems talk about life and its
songs, our anthems, laments, and jubilations.
They are creations and we are creators.
God is Poet, ever-present, ever-creating
meaning-maker. And this, another ars poetica.
But it never tires of me, poetry. Nor I of it.
Nor God of me. Nor I of God.