by Caroline Donnola

Is a poet
a gift from God?
An offering
from the fairies?
A wordsmith with a silver tongue,
a wounded soul
with too much pain
to swallow?
One who sees the droplets of light
cutting through the dark?
A healer to realign
the humors?

Is there a special spring
from which poets drink,
infusing them with melody
harmony
rhythm
and verse?

Do poets breathe
saltier air,
imbibe sweeter wine
which flows into our brains,
producing magical thinking?

******

We grew up
seven miles apart
(I from the wrong side
of Sunrise Highway.)
Both of our mothers
read us poetry
when we were young.
We were entranced
and so we both
picked up the pen
and created our own.

Years later we met
at a union event
at your home in Jersey City.
Since then
we’ve traveled down
winding roads
of political tactics
candidates and campaigns
fights and crusades
progress and regress
fits and starts.
Surprisingly, we keep on.

At times we meet
in the countryside
for brief forays
into fields of green,
you along riverbanks
with strong currents
where the fish slither by
framed by cresting hills
and purple wildflowers.

*****

Language, my friend,
is simply a game.
We’re playing it
all the time.
Sometimes we’re in tune.
Other times we’re a broken record
that no one wants to hear.
Occasionally 
we string together words
that sing out
in an almost dream-like state.
We call these musings poetry.

Those of us who place
our reflections 
onto the page?
We’re called poets.
All we have to do
is to keep on writing
and say what we long to say.