Poetry is

a sparrow alit on a willow twig,

brown smudge against spring green,

throat tense and quivering in

anticipation,

the scrape of an ancient man's voice

like a tired cello, horsehair bow beginning

to fray as the measures progress in

broken steps,

an empty chair,

a green-tinged mirror,

and a doorway.

Poetry is

a moment

and an ant drowned in amber—

no more,

no less.