fly on the roof

How could I resist that blinding warmth

Poetry is in everything and surrounds us like a mother's hug or a harsh truth or the wind in the trees and the snow in winter. I am not a poet. I see the beauty but I cannot liken it to your smile or how your hair falls or the brush of your hands. To put such beauty into words, to try to explain such masterpieces of the universe, would be to betray them. Who am I , one, to refine the beauty of all into small sentences and verses. I am not a poet. I could liken you to the sun and the bees and the sky. The rain and the clouds and the sea. You would love me for it. But you are not the sea or the sky. You are just yourself and you live and breathe love and joy and I am addicted to that brightness. But one day you will fade. You will be in the ground and dead and gone. I am not a poet of god . I am not one of his. I know there is no sky kingdom of plenty and I am glad for it. Because although you will be gone. I will continue to see all that beauty. But now it is you. You are a part of the dandelions in the graveyard so vibrant. To me you will be the sun shining off puddles when it stops raining. And the painted sky and the rocking living sea and the way fields of grass ripple like blankets on a bed. I will become a poet. The sun the moon the stars do not shine for you but you must have lent them your light for them to suddenly hold my attention like a stunned lover. I will become a poet. In my ache for your person I will hear your voice in the wind chimes and the waves. Feel your touch in the grass brushing my legs and the cold river rocks. See your freckles in the stars and your eyes in the summer sky and your art in everything. In my loss of you I would gain the hungriest eyes. Devouring any piece of you they find. In my grief I would gain the prettiest words. Writing and singing all your praises. I would become a poet. But I would rather be illiterate and holding your hand, then spilled ink and a lovely grave.