No one told me what a poem really was until I heard a woman say in an interview: We are all living inside a poem. I thought then of the poem of my early morning: the tiny bit of salt sprinkled on an egg as it fried in the pan after I broke the white- walled fortress where it kept a little sun captive. And I thought of the poem of midday, a window straining to open after months of being shut, but whose wooden frame now shrinks from the cold. The poem of the world inside the radio crackled with news of ice storms, and people on the road huddled together all night researching every pocket of warmth to be found. In another poem, a man was bringing his wife home from the hospital. Fish in ponds looked up every now and then at the frozen ceiling, before moving back into their blue- speckled rooms.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.