I ask the page
who may call themselves a writer,
who may dare the name of poet,
and the page answers
with my own hand.
A writer is the one
who keeps returning,
who shapes the day’s small weather
into lines that hold.
A poet is the one
who hears the world twice,
once in fact,
once in metaphor,
and knows both are true.
So am I either,
or neither,
or both?
I am the threshold
where the question dissolves.
I am the breath
that becomes a line.
I am the line
that becomes a world.
Call me writer.
Call me poet.
Call me the one
who asks,
and answers
by writing.