Why do you write poetry? Because it’s easi-

er than writing a long essay about my life

philosophy. Because it gets in through the

backdoor, and lets in some light through

there. Because it never lets me alone until

I have written down each word the muse

whispers in my ear; she tells me that I do

not have to write down every single god-

damn word she speaks, but I cannot help

but write it all down, or else I am in a heap

of a mess and cannot contain myself: it’s

like losing my mind, if I don’t transcribe

each word of the muse, who speaks to me

like the breath of the wind or the whisper

of the shadows, delicate as the sunlight

beaming through the window, soft and

warm, on a chilly, cold winter’s day. I

do not write poems because I can–if,

indeed, I can!–nor because I get to,

nor because I must, but because I can-

not not write a poem, pent up in me

as each one is, flowing from my finger-

tips like a stream of water running

down the side of a mountainscape.