Because I'm here, this late in the century,
looking at the ink-filled sky,
seeing the April comet, a luminous exclamation,
not believing, with the alternatives
of nuclear char or unchecked epidemic,
that anything from our time will last.
But still, I was here, on this rock,
this shaley hillside, violets blooming
in the grass, for a short time. I suffered,
I lived, I loved in the face of everything,
and I have to write it down.
“Because the world is round it turns me on.” (John Lennon)
Because, as Stephen King says, “What makes you think I have a choice?”
Because I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
Because “love calls us to the things of the world.” (Richard Wilbur)
Because “the Blues is truth” (Buddy Guy) and so is poetry.
Because in poetry, “Nothing is lost, everything is transformed” (Antoine Lavoisier, father of modern chemistry.”
Because “all sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story” (Isak Dinensen) or a poem.
Because there is no other language for joy.
Because “grapes want to turn to wine.” (Rumi)
Because, to quote myself again, there’s “one small / life, and it's never enough.” (“How the Trees on Summer Nights Turn Into a Dark River”)