in the beginning is the young child
always thinking, questioning why
the sky is blue, why the sun is round,
why the rain falls down.

The Poet
in the early morning is the first one
rising at dawning, before the robin
sings his sweet song, with mind moving
as pistons, shaping, shifting and lifting.

The Poet
in midafternoon, jots down thoughts
on a paper napkin while stirring her
coffee with a spoon. Everything she sees
will be composed into a poem, even some
poor innocent child without their knowing.

The Poet
in the evening hunkers down with
a book, to escape into another man’s
story, cut from the loincloth of his pages
she engages another brilliant mind before
her bedtime.