Why poems?

Because winter

is still wintering.

Because my belly
rumbles after the third,
the fourth cup of coffee,
and wonders

where breakfast is.

Because pigeons and sparrows
feed on what can be found
in the grey snow of yesterday.

Because the cottontailed rabbit
bounds from the bushes
in the cold night of Arlington,
into the garden of asphalt
and parked cars.

Because republics totter

and collapse in a heap.
Because fortunes nosedive,
palaces implode.
Because strongmen are demented,
and stumble, and fall.

Because Venus smiles upon me
in the reachable distance of sky.

Because loved ones
keep me standing,
keep me breathing.

Because I am impractical,
living on beggar's wishes.

Because there are those
with neither bread nor cake,

with neither milk nor wine,
who keep songs for sustenance.

Because Emily Dickinson
hatches revolution,

plants seeds of rebellion
in the First Church's hymnal.

Because March and April

are around the bend,
with forsythia and days
of grace and temperature.

Because the poet speaks
of "a softer knowing."

Because some places
preach at you. And other places
welcome you
with the unmistakable embrace
of chosen family.

Because Steven in Florida
sends me Kabir, John Donne,
Rabbi Shapiro.

Because John appreciates
the contours of a funny story,
of a cardinal at the feeder,
of a luminous soul
doing the next self-healing thing.

Because as my body

withers and comes asunder,

the mind still dances

its antic dance of joy.