To Know That the Cornstalks Talk

For reasons red and reasons shadowed, I’ve been reading a lot more poetry lately. I’ve never considered myself the biggest fan of bards or smiths (perhaps in part to my own failings), yet whenever I reach this place in my head, I always kind of notice how easy they are to find in my home.

     I’ve been reciting a lot of Gilbran, despite the risks and memories that he holds.
     I’ve been reading a lot of Bukowski, despite the thirst it tends to bring.
     Verses too famous to fathom, too personal to share.

        Yet my favorite will always be
        the fifty-seven words
        that Judy Grahn wrote
        to a woman that
        I will never know
        in the place where...

They’re here. In my house, on my shelves… in my mind.

I’ve always suspected that poetry was something written for others. Even when at it’s heart the lines are painted from the mixed colors of your innermost palettes, or written as a release from inside - there’s something about the way poetry feels…

     Something about the way it works,

                even when it’s never meant for eyes other than your own.