poetry is
sensitivity,
it is feeling
what we cannot see
it is this vast
darkness
where we pierce
with the light
in our
hearts,
it glows
it traverses
dimensions,
it links
one
to another
they are these roots
intertwining
with tendrils
poetry is
awareness
about what others
fail to know
it is
a flow of emotion
carried by the
trailers of
words,
and sound and scent
and smoke
and mist and
dew
it is the syllabication,
of an imagination
about what
is real what is touched
what is loved
and what hurts the most.
poetry is a beating
a pulse
a timer, a heckle
a tickle,
a pause,
a seizure, a cough,
it is colds
and flu
and a viral infection
and at the same
time it can be
a leisurely walk at the park
with your dog
unleashed
and jumping with too much
happiness
it is the sound of
raindrops
tripping from
the leaking roof
dripping
in our room
to the
wooden floor
it is the fluttering
butterfly
drinking nectar
from flower to
flower
so gentle and
so fragile
it is a wood drifting
in a river
a letting go
wherever it is
taken.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem