musings of an unrefined philosopher

I am a poet. I take the words and I turn them on their heads until the juice runs out. It is red and sweet, like strawberries. I sit cross-legged on lilypads, watching meaning watercolor itself onto the pond. I rust like clockwork in the rain. I once held a staring contest with God. He won. I went home and searched for four-leaf clovers with a microscope. I do not get lucky. I write poems about the way the light hits the edges of a wineglass in August. I am a poet. I am the beating heart at the end of sentences. They put me there to keep me alive.