A (Found) Poem from October

Nature is not my landscape
The birds and trees and animals
Small to large
I love them all but
Cannot remember their names
And species cannot
Identify them by leaf or by dropping

My canvas has nothing to do with politics
Or the hip scene, or a life of debauchery
Has neither to do with country living nor
The fast-paced rat race
I find no solace there
And no inspiration

It’s the small, available things
(As Mary Oliver says)
That kill me
That fill me
That send me to sea

The pursed lip or pinky finger
The song, the chord, the single note
The tail wag
The toaster pop
The smell of mint
The scent of cedar
From opened box

These things send me
Shaking
Hungry
To the page
Where I scribble until
I’m full