Words

 

Words are my currency. Spending them

is my satisfaction - this stringing of thoughts,

of phrases, trying to find the ones that create

a moment of connection - with you, and with

whoever might pick up my poems after I am gone:

to find me, come this way.

My work is to explain my heart,

even though I cannot explain my heart.

My mother said, "You should be writing

these stories down. You're the writer."

I should have listened. Memory is

selective, and fallible.

My work is to capture the moment

when the sun comes up behind the hills

at  South Chesterman's. My work is to

love the creatures passing through,

knowing I will have to, at some point,

let them go.

My work is to share the joy and grief 

of being alive, to express my gratitude

to the All That Is for my sojourn here -

the heartaches, the heartlifts.

Thank you. Thank you for it all.

Inspired by An Address to My Fellow Faculty Who Have Asked Me to Speak About My Work, by Papatya Bucak. The italicized lines are hers.