By the Fireside
I long to sit and write poems
Warmed by a crackling fire
I long to share
With fellow poets, writers, and artists
Drinking wine
Listening to their readings-
I have no fireside,
And poets live far away
The chores pile up
I cook, wash, and sweep
Though using a pen when I can
I need not worry-
Life is a poem, composing
What we have no time to in ink
There is poetry that is poetry
Merely written in words
And there is poetry
Expressed in the patterns we live
Embracing the life and work
We’ve been given
Verse offerings made
In the rhythms of sacrifice
Michele Marie
