I Would Not Have Been a Poet....

 

I would not have been a poet except

when I was just turned fourteen, sitting

in my grade nine class, a poem

began writing itself in my head;

quickly, I wrote it down,

then sat back, amazed.

I would not have been a poet except

I have always been in love with blue sky

and trees, with lakes and rivers

and the shimmering sea,

and have tried to capture their beauty in words,

more or less unsuccessfully.

This hampered ability has

kept me writing poetry ever since,

thousands of poems,
by now,

all saying some version of
"this is all that I know of beauty

and most of what I know as joy."

I would not have been a poet except

I have had my heart broken, and have lost

everything that I had more than once,

have loved more than I have been loved,

except by a big black wolf, who showed me

how love was meant to be done

when two hearts love as one.

I would not have been a poet except

every morning, when I sit down at my desk,

even after all these years, the words still come,

singing my song of gratitude for that blue sky,

those ancient cedar, for the beautiful

non-human creatures that are the true wonders

of this world, and for pearly pink dawns

and amber sunsets that lift our eyes

up above the cacophony
of our noisy human day

to seek a higher path that will
lead us forward

in a better way.

Inspired by VII by Wendell Berry. The italicized lines are his.