culled

 

a poem calls to me

order calls to me,

a drive to cull from experience and consideration

something of words that can hold

something of the thoughts and feelings

that course through me,

to let them eddy just long enough

to pull themselves into a shape I can note and record,

I am pulled inexorably downstream,

I love to find a rock,

to hold on for awhile,

and find the words that capture a bit 

of where I am, of who I am,

of what I can notice, appreciate, express,

I craft a poem,

and I feel the rightness of noticing,

and chronicling, a moment,

I feel a divine unease

until I find the words I need.

by Henry H. Walker

January  25, ‘22