Believing that it is love
that drives the sun, the moon and all the stars, and that
it is the need for love that moves
imagination, hope and faith to coalesce in words, and

knowing for fact that the year is closing, and that
another year will follow,
(like a lily growing again from the mud of a lake)
and sorrowfully aware

that my flesh is wrinkling and slowly
stiffening, while sensing
the daily and nightly intrusion of aches and of pains in
unexpected places, and being

aware of the loss of too many of our much-loved poets:
like Heaney, Kinsella, and Kinnell—
I thought that all I could do was close over the notebook,
put down the pen and leave

all the ungathered and unassuming words locked away
within the incomprehensible
innards of the laptop—but—after a very short while
I thought better of it—because, knowing

it is love that drives the sun, the moon and all the stars, I went
down to the inner room,
laid out the notebook, called on the Spirit, settled myself
in resplendent silence, and

waited.