Poetry is a farcical fancy.
Writers attempting to capture a world,
a life, an emotion
in a few brief lines.
The muse commands from behind a door,
orders in the checkout line,
shines a fleeting gap-toothed smile.
The rose smells sweet and the moon shines.
Love must be captured, for the rose will wilt
and the writer must obey.
A child is fancifully foolish.
He is trying to understand his world
his life, his emotions
in a few brief years.
Each passing day commands life forward,
crawling barelegged across the floor,
speaking nonsense into thought.
The mother makes mementos of babble
For on his deathbed he will want to recall.
Even the child must heed time.
A poet is an absurd child.
But like this child, we must obey.
We put the universe to words.
Put words to words.