A poem starts in the thinking,
reflective place where stories have happened; where stories were seen and heard
and composed. A poem granule comes to this human site from elsewhere. It comes from
away. It may come with hesitation and an open heart or it may jump wildly,
crashing to earth with ascribed delights aplenty or with recorded pain. A poem
doesn’t know how to find the ‘why’, nor do we. We need only pick it up, turn it
over, sort the pieces; and in so doing breathe a life into it deliberately, with
any meaning we can muster. Think about how our bodies carry all the maps and
the words we’ve ever used even from the very first flight path out of our
mother’s arms. These maps are intact if we need them to connect with others.
When the time comes to feel joy, first we must escape the deception that we are
always the only one, alone.