as each turn of phrase endures
the fall
from my heart
toward the inviting page
i ponder where they've originated
truly
 
is it...
heaven?
do i believe in such a thing?
 
oh no! even-handed answers do not
derive from whence they came...
at least i don't think.
 
i consider what they may
possibly mean to me
as i bare my unyielding soul
 
could it be
that i am vacant in the exact moment
i proceed to conjure their beautiful life?
 
perhaps. but no answer,
no matter the inquiry,
is quite as simple.
 
and so, i tie all i know together
within the old tree
that sits just outside my window
as i write.
 
nature itself surely must hold the key.
 
whimsical winds caress the erect trees
and brim an energy
which we all know except...
not all of us realize.
 
what is an impossible question? a riddle?
 
where do i come from and
what am i?
 
to this i can only whisper
with my fingers tangled in my hair:
 
"a 'poet' is all i know
i can be."