Poetry is easy;
it lives in the cracks
and beams of sunlight -
just look at things
and transfer life to paper.
Write about the katydid
on the concrete wall
and how it’s missing legs,
but that its emerald body
washes over all the grey.
Or about the tiny spider
weaving a web between two clothespins
and the chimes that are silent
on a hazy tropical day.
And there are the palms hanging
like skeleton fingers
searching for something,
a piano perhaps,
to play that little jazz number
to the beat of breaking waves.
See how it all comes together so easily?
Little bits of life,
the ones begging to be looked at
and written into history.
