.26) My Poems Have Their Moods

Sometimes my poems are shy, tired of the scrutiny of eyes, tired of being undressed. They come and snuggle under me like baby chicks. Rested, they venture forth again. Now they become eyes, Buttonholing people on corners: 'Pssst—help you see? ' Each has a mission. Some reveal the hilarity in the composition of matter. Some spread the word that the sky is falling. Others announce a shout of joy everywhere at 10 AM. One tells of a revolution already begun in the bones. What do I really know about my poems? They come out of a place that, a moment before, I never knew was there. Yes, I try to shelter them, knowing all the while they're not mine. That’s just the mystery of birth and parenthood. I can't stop this thing I prayed for now. I think of shutting down this operation for a real rest, but it's invisible, I can't even find it!