Most poems are not read,
they are encountered,
greeted, and wondered at.
They are inhaled.
They are floated upon.
They are smooth and round in your palm.
They are just a sliver in the night sky
or they set fire to the day break.
One must be there
and
quiet
and
listening.
Some poems are walked along
slowly
through tall spring grass,
and some,
on occasion, dart out,
and they are yellow.
-Siobhan Westrop
I am a writer, hiker, mother, wife and lover of all things natural. Writing outside is my favourite way to spend my days. I live and explore in Alberta, Canada.