My Life

My life is a poem
It looks for brokenness
To recreate and fix
This obsession leaves me
With boxes and boxes
Of poems I’ve written
Through ages of my life
From “…walking in the woods
munching a carrot…” to
“…Sometimes incredulous.”

Stories, poems, thousands
Boxed up words gathering dust
They thank me for their life
Even though it’s unsung
Some old poems return
A line, an image, old
Yet some how new today
Come home to play with me
Stay, I’ll recreate you
Wait while I pour some tea.