A Poet's Journey

This is poetry, they said, these words that you write.

My father frowns. My mama sighs.

Why can’t you just be a doctor, a lawyer, a nurse?

This is poetry, they said, these words that you write.

Wordsworth and Byron, Shelly and Keats.

But none of this rhymes, or is in meter or verse.

This is poetry, they said, these words that you write.

Flying through the waves, swimming through the clouds.

Across seven seas, grasslands, mountains high.

This is poetry, they said, these words that you write.

The hills above Darfur, sentinels of Bamyan.

They build, they break. A continent in tears.

This is poetry, they said, these words that you write.

I sit in a tower, in the midst of a green park.

The years lie in front of me, white pages all filled.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

Pieces of cloth, thread, a needle, puffs of cotton,

Cushions and pillows for little heads.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

I must have been three.

A red wool frock, yellow daisies bright,

sit well on the little girl with strawberry blonde hair.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

I must have been eight.

A ball of thread, a shiny crochet hook, in a pocket of green,

pineapples dancing around in circles.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

I must have been twelve.

Bouquets of color, satin, stem, long and short,

springing across a white tablecloth.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

I must have been sixteen.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go clack.

My life lies ahead, for stitches to dance.