Why Write?

What if I tell you that it’s just a story,

A story of small things, even the smallest things,

You know all about them, like knit and purl,

Picking up and dropping stitches to continue

Or stop the pattern.

What if I say that not everything is a poem,

The gurgling, swollen brown river, after several rainy days

Incomprehensively, sometimes threateningly

Echoes mournfully.

Weaving the small things, not poetic, not in lace,

Just in plain sweat suits sitting in front of the computer

Screen next to piles of papers is just as incomprehensible

As the river clears its voice, making its way down

To the Connecticut River as the North River.

I like the title of two words, starting with “W.”  Why not!

A very small thing, maybe one of the smallest things

I can think of.  My wacky noodle mind compares

Things small and large, far and near.  Sometimes

At the speed of light, crossing the oceans, especially

The waters I sailed across—South/North Pacific,

Tasman Sea, Indian Ocean, Red Sea, Mediterranean Sea.

How small things become part of the large universe

Is simply beautiful in any and all languages.  The smooth baby

Skins build muscle.  Babbling baby voice becomes commanding,

And demanding.

The movement of life is more than sailing across the sea.

Life is to be lived by weaving small things into the big frame

Of life envying the Orien, thinking of the Southern Cross

Twinkling in the mild trade wind.

Words witness whole or in part,

Even in the second or third language

Picking on tangled noodles

With the help of Grammarly.