Often, I think I don’t have the patience
for poetry –
the pauses, the rhymes, the wordy mimes
Who has got the time?

But then,
I chop carrots – long and broad
hear the whistling papers of the clerk
read Brontë sisters hid stories under needlework

Rotund birds fill the porch
Mighty bees make love to the rose
I sigh and glee
The whole world is filled with poetry.