Eve Merriam
"I," says the poem arrogantly,
"I am a cloud,
I am a tree.
I am a city,
I am the sea,
I am a golden
Mystery."
How can it be?
A poem is written
by some someone,
someone like you,
or someone like me
who blows his nose,
who breaks shoelaces,
who hates and loves,
who loves gloves,
who eats, who weeps,
who laughs, who sleeps,
an ordinary he or she
extraordinary as you or me
whose thoughts stretch high
as clouds in the sky,
whose memories
root deep as trees,
whose feelings choke
like city smoke,
whose fears and joys in waves redound
like the ocean's tidal sound,
who daily solves a mystery:
each hour is new, what will it be?
"I," says the poem matter-of-factly,
"I am a cloud,
I am a tree.
I am a city,
I am the sea,
I am a golden
Mystery."
But, adds the poem silently,
I cannot speak until you come.
Reader, come, come with me.
