“What’s ‘Poetry’ when it’s at home?”
I was asked.
Tasked with this question
(to which I had no ready answer)
made me unsteady on my unsymmetrical feet.
“Poetry, when at home, is…”
I paused, allowed my mind to roam.
“… like a Spring morning…
… combined with a dawn chorus of birds…
… and topped off with a cloudless sky,
the fragrance of sweet meadows,
and a landscape of gently rolling valleys.
“All bundled into an impenetrable format of rhyme scheme, syllables, rhythm, and poesy.
“Does that help?” I ask.
The questioner had long since departed to a place of safety… and sanity.
“ ‘Oh, to be a poet, now that April’s here.’ “