This voice sounding puzzled,
tasting old words
as if they have new flavours,
this is me
speaking as a poet;
transcribing real moments
into words
that hang together briefly.
They rise from ordinary things,
teakettles,
my gratitude for socks,
the toilet paper holder
loose on the wall
and needing attention
and when I pause to see,
the poem takes shape.
This is me also finding voice
as an innkeeper,
less practical
than my colleagues
but equally welcoming.
The innkeeper I rejected
as too small,
bound in too much tending.
The poet I rejected
for the opposite same,
a purposeless attention.
I have been a poet
since the first day
I discovered that words
could be cut
more easily than paper,
glued more easily
than the other crafts.
The core of my professing
is how this tending and welcoming
live here.