This Noetic Lustrous Fuss

Everything's a poem. Poems

are the DNA of being. I grabbed

a handful of the stuff today

but it was so beyond enough

that I was forced to let it go

and send it fleeing. So many

syllables in throes of numinosity!

Today I watched as tasteful

consonants and vowels became

a graceful ABCB rhyme-schemed

tree – others coalesced into iambic

stresses which, if pressed, I’d

have to say looked not completely

unlike me, before they morphed

into two milkmaids who, when

they put on their bonnets, creamily

churned into terza rima sonnets.

That all is made of poetry becomes

quite something for a creature

just discovering the fact to see.

At every turn we learn we always

always face the hiss and crack

of this noetic lustrous fuss that

makes, and is made up of, us.

.