I wanted to write a poem.
I wanted to write about beautiful things like other poets do; I wanted to write about fragments of sunlight caught on broken glass.
I wanted to write about the everlasting kiss between the waves and the shore. The retreat and the jump forward. The dance.
I wanted to write about caterpillars and butterflies and the transition between worlds through life and death and glorious rebirth.
But instead I could write nothing.
Because I could not draw to mind the broken glass; not the ocean’s kiss, nor the butterfly’s wings.
I could only imagine in my mind a great swirling depth: a whole cosmic universe of ideas, all manner of sizes great and small.
Galaxies of music notes and poems and long-lost handwritten letters and a great deal of used notebook paper strewn all over, as well as photographs and books and words, words, words – words everywhere, words through my skin, words up my nose, words in my hair.
Such easy pickings. Right there for the taking.
What could I draw up out of this astronomical world for my poem? What aspects of it could I pull out and twist around and stuff into five tiny, compact stanzas to be easily read, easily digested? Which idea could I pluck up right out of the air and make my own?
But no, not today.
Today I would write about all of it. Today I would not pick one star – I would write of the whole Milky Way.
Because today I see it, and today I pursue it. It is really quite amazing,
The poetry of everything.