Crossing over

I have tried for some time to write poetry. I have looked carefully at the world around me and have considered my words. I have tried to reach some unknown reader.

Then the other day, I was walking back from the river. The air was cool. The sky was a late afternoon blue. There was a thin scattering of clouds like fish scales and I thought ...

... and then I stopped thinking that thought.

All this time think that I had failed to understand. Being a poet has almost nothing to do with the unknown reader. To be a poet, I should write words, nothing more and nothing less. My subject might be banal, my metaphors lacking, my words ill-crafted – my poems might not make any sense to anyone else in the whole world whatsoever – and be clunky.

Or maybe, just maybe, my poems might be good. Who’s to say? To be a poet, I think that I should just forget about all that.

And so I finally crossed over.

Here’s one of my poems. I didn’t write it for you, but you can read it or not.

I was walking back from the river.

The air was cool.

The sky was a late afternoon blue.

I saw clouds like fish scales –

and then I knew I would never find the words

to say what I wanted to say.

I miss you.