Sometimes my poems are shy, <br />tired of the scrutiny of eyes, <br />tired of being undressed. <br /> <br />They come and snuggle <br />under me like baby chicks. <br /> <br />Rested, they venture forth again. <br />Now they become eyes, <br />Buttonholing people on corners: <br />'Pssst—help you see? ' <br /> <br />Each has a mission. <br />Some reveal the hilarity <br />in the composition of matter. <br />Some spread the word <br />that the sky is falling. <br />Others announce a shout <br />of joy everywhere at 10 AM. <br />One tells of a revolution <br />already begun in the bones. <br /> <br />What do I really know about my poems? <br />They come out of a place that, <br />a moment before, <br />I never knew was there. <br /> <br />Yes, I try to shelter them, <br /> knowing all the while <br />they're not mine. <br />That’s just the mystery <br />of birth and parenthood. <br />I can't stop this thing I prayed for now. <br />I think of shutting down <br />this operation for a real rest, <br />but it's invisible, <br />I can't even find it!<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/26-my-poems-have-their-moods/
