I admire the work
from afar,
quick to notice its beauty,
its grace,
its rhythm.

They say that imitation is
the highest compliment.

Alas,
I am not a poet.

Maple trees sometimes
are outsapped by my verse.
The words feel forced
they flow like a rock river.

But if it just…
comes…
everything’s fine.

But that doesn’t happen
Very often.

So I leave the poetry
to the poets.
The real poets.
The ones from whom beauty,
in very few words,
flows