In the temper and the tantrum, in the well-kept arboretum/ I am waiting, like an animal,/ For poetry.

Katy Lederer, That Everything’s Inevitable

I live in the temper and tantrum. I stroll in the well-kept arboretum. I seek poetry. I am talking about the poetry of life. The poetry in which words dance and cry. The poetry that tinkers toward beauty and wonder and awe. The poetry that softens concrete hearts. The poetry that speaks in seasons, story, and song.

I seek poetry. I pay attention. I clear the underbrush. I drink sunshine. I knock on doors. I open windows. I practice breathing in patterns. I take my time. I feel and feel and feel. I jump and grab stars. I dive and explore shipwrecks. I watch too much television.

When I was a child, my grandmother made roast with a pressure cooker. The top would hiss and jump and spin for hours, and at the end we would have a meal. Poetry reminds me of a pressure cooker. It is comforting in the way I remember my grandma’s kitchen. It is sustaining in the way I eat words and become full. It is noisy in the way all the pieces move together and make a new whole. It is home in the way that syllables conjure memories.

Poetry is inevitable. Let me explain. Poetry happens. Joy happens. Sadness happens. Victory happens. Loss happens. Birth happens. Death happens. Amidst it all, poetry happens. It is up to us to taste and see and listen. It is up to us to be still and know.