If James Wright could put in his book of poems a blank page
dedicated to "the Horse David Who Ate One of My Poems,"
I am ready to follow him along
the sweet path he cut through the dryness and suggest that you sit now
very quietly in some lovely wild place, and listen to the silence.
And I say that this, too, is a poem
Let us leave our minds blank for horses, over ridden, abandoned, shipped to slaughter
Let us leave our minds blank for the sparrows dropping from the skies and the flies upon children's faces
Let us leave our minds blank for the wildness without to colonize the wildness within
Let us leave our minds blank for that we love and may one day come to love.
Let us leave our minds blank in honor of all beings
All beings, who I say that too, are poems.
What kind of poem do you write today?