The Telling Poem

I would like to tell this poem why I write, This paper I drag my pen along, Like a thin shadow. The paper listens deeply. It has opened its face, It has emptied its heart, It is waiting for me to start. So, I begin. I ring the bell to call the slow thoughts in. They come like monks, Their alms hidden in pouches. I tell the story Short and sharp's a sigh. I may make the paper wait. I may torment it. There is a time for food, A time for fasting. I am a wine-maker Today the grapes are young The wine is not for tasting.