The Fragrance of Poetry

The Fragrance of Poetry


The time is the bright morning
When the birds come down from the blue sky
I sit in the shade of a tree and write poetry.

Poetry resembles a picture,
drawing the low houses
window frames with beautiful patterns
and red roof tiles.

Poetry resembles music,
writing 
the brief shout of a child running across the yard
and the red ball
the sound of the wind blowing across the wide fields
and the sour moment of the apple falling.

Poetry blooms inside all things
like the scent released from the center
it fills the wide sky
strokes my face and the tip of my nose.

Poetry is on the small journal
that the poor pencil scratched against.
When the journal is shut
poetry becomes the fragrance of fruit shut with a stopper
Poetry is the small dirty journal resting deep in my backpack
until my wife clandestinely opens it tomorrow morning.


                       -Meteora, Greece