It walks among us

visiting our inadequacies

stirring our restlessness

awaking us in our sleep

chirping like predawn birds

having much to say without interpretation

Yes poetry is a houseguest

It scuttles along collecting smells

like crackling bacon in cast iron skillets,

taking in poignant sniffs of calla lily

stems that attack you walking by

it evokes our presence timely

or not who can say

sharing our tears

our fears

our fantasies

recording our days

our memories

with finely handled nibs

etching calligraphic splendor.