I think I have written before about how my poems often want to begin with the word so, as if I am beginning right in the middle of the conversation that you and I are having, and the poem itself is a continuation of thought rather than its own new thing. Lately, when a poem starts to shape itself in the back of my brain, it wants to begin with because. Do my poems want to justify themselves? Defend their need to be? Or are they themselves trying to explain the world to me? Because the maple tree caught fire against the blue sky. . . Because you were listening to the owl in the early morning. . . The oddest thing about this particular compulsion is that when I look back to my poems at this time last year, because is a featured word there, too. I wonder if October seeks for reasons.
Because October seeks a reason,
because the owl called down that crescent of a moon,
because I cannot get those words you said
to settle down in the room of my head.
Because of the way the stories grow inside us,
telling themselves in our sleep,
waiting to be taken by the hand
and led into the golden glare
of October afternoons.
2. Digging out of the hole
4. Wrist warmers
5. Inhabiting the story
May we walk in Beauty! Because.