by Sandra Lowen

Created on: August 07, 2010   Last Updated: August 08, 2010

YOU ARE POETRY – A Poem

Your skipping footsteps always rhyme.

In perfect and Iambic time.

Some days, you really make no sense.

But maybe I’m the one who’s dense.

I watch you, humming in your chair,

Twirling your long, unbraided hair.

What has become of your left shoe?

I don’t ask; you won’t have a clue.

I wonder how it feels to be

A child again, of two or three

With no idea of what the world

Has waiting for you, little girl.

I wonder if your happy grin

Will still be there when you are ten,

Or if you’ll still snort with delight

When cares keep you awake at night

And trouble comes to your front door

And knocks when you are thirty-four,

Or forty-two, or fifty-eight,

And you must labor to create.

I know I have so little trust.

My life has grown too serious,

And I can’t find the rhythm lost

To making life work—At what cost?

If I could only suck my thumb

And find some tuneless tune to hum

And make up words as you do, there,

About your fuzzy Teddy bear!

You don’t care if they scan or not.

And critics’ frowns, they matter not.

I fret, I sweat, I try to squeeze

My thoughts in lines. You needn’t please

A soul but only you yourself.

It doesn’t work? You’ve got a wealth

Of songs and sketches, poems and plays,

Enough to last for days and days.

I catch your eye; you smile at me.

I get it; you are poetry.

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