As I'm reading other authors poems I can't help but silently agree that poetry is a secret language.
Wondrous explosions of words
become magical and yet those reading may feel completely different feelings from those writing.
And yet, that mystery, the self-giving that poetry is becomes a release.
So we sit and we write.
About the day's fluorescence or a lovers escapade;
we turn our poetry into songs, into peace offerings, into dedications.
Wherever that person is sitting at that computer desk, or that cemented garden we are all here.
In love with something we ourselves cannot fully grasp.
In love with more than the idea of something,
in love with words.