A poem isn’t something I make, it’s something I serve…
—Jane Hirshfield

Serve the poem on a large platter;
decorate with all the trimmings
accompanied by hearty staples—
yummy line breaks, tasty stanzas—
smothered in metaphor.

Let it stand as centerpiece
of a moment, as a thing
somehow greater than it
appears at first glance.

Let it fill you and move you,
satiate you so well that
dessert becomes unnecessary.

Let it go for the distance
traveled by a great egret
high-stepping through
summer green rice paddies,
then flapping away, bound for
some unnamed landscape,
some other poet’s perfect
moment.