A POEM OF QUESTIONS

A friend says I should write more poetry.
It’s been awhile.  There’s been
death,
discouragement,
flooding,
regime changes,
shear laziness,

But who am I and what do I have to say? 
And who would care?
Is there a poem I could write that would
touch
or transform
or move anyone?

The old adage is: write what you know. 

So, do I write about the gnarly sycamore tree
which, though it dons a camouflage cover,
is always spotted where water christens its roots? 
Or do I describe the delicate Pink Lady Slipper orchid,
whose enigmatic, masculine form springs only from soil
made acid by
worn sandstone,
broken shale,
time?

Should my poem ask the reader,
“Did you know you can read the land this way?”
But who cares, really?  Isn’t land just for
buying and selling
building upon
or harvesting from?

Is it a waste of words for a poem to beckon others
to consider life (aren't people too busy to read poetry?)
on a park bench,
a trail
or a bridge above
a lyrical stream?

Should the poem invite them to stop listening,
just for those few moments in time
to the voices of culture,
of family,
or the lies,
they tell
themselves,

and listen to the song of the red-eyed vireo
chanting his mnemonic mantra?
“See me” “Up here.” “Here I am” 

Can a poem, even a silly one that doesn’t
say anything, just asks questions, inspire?
After it's written perhaps someone will
read this poem, then stand barefoot on
spongy grass,
rotting leaves,
hard, hewn wood,
raise their golden face, hands open
to the sun,
the black, rolling clouds,
the slice of moon,
and shout, maybe for the first time,

 “See me!  Down here!  Here I am!”

 
Cindy Steffen
May 2011