Plight of the Poet

I have no excuses today
no one to blame for my
mind that has wandered off
to watch the squirrels
leap from Ginko tree
to railing to snow-drifted
deck furniture
delirious with joy at the
golden kernels of treasure
revealed as the snow melts

You think it is so easy
so decadently self-indulgent
to put words to the page
and take personal offense
spin rejection
out of what you don't understand

I say I don't know where
it begins, how the first
line is formed, what
moment has offered itself up
as fodder;
the twin babies held over
a baptismal font,
the liver chestnut mare
crossing the pasture of
melting snow in sun,
the fat full moon hanging
heavy over the filigree of naked trees

we place so much heart and soul
in our need
to matter
to say something profound
or memorable
or brilliantly
breath-taking
all too often lost
on the journey from
head to hand

and still we return to this
private hell
we are such junkies
such masochists
such crazies
the plight of the poet
the exquisite
pleasure in the pain.

ksaint