Well, you've been scarce, I growled at her,
I call and I call, but you never show.
The moose just smiled at me.
I want to write a sestina, and it's hard,
I whined. Just help me and I will do
whatever thing you say. She began to laugh.
Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh
at you, she said and wiped her
eyes upon my sleeve. By the way, do
you have chocolate? Please show
me where it is. I put the tin down hard
in front of her. She grinned at me.
My dear, you need to follow me,
she said. The reason that I laugh
is that you search so very hard
in all the strangest places. A poet and her
moose are never far apart. I show
myself when needed; you just don't know I do.
Well, I cried, I don't know what to do.
Serious poetry, it seems, eludes me.
For my great efforts, all I have to show
is fluffy verse that's good for just a laugh
or smile. Any poet worth her
salt has more depth than that. How hard
it is to write of anguish, life's hard
knocks with words profound. Why do
I write of fireflies and balloons? She shook her
head. Because I say you must. It's up to me
what you create. Besides, you need to laugh;
it keeps you young. Do you really need to show
that you can think and feel? That will show
if you live honestly. Even from your moose it's hard
to hear the truth, but moose don't lie. I began to laugh,
So you want the poem about the llama? said I. I do,
she said. If you would write that one for me
I'll give you a sestina. I shook her
hoof to show that I believed in her.
She turned to go, looked hard at me,
and with a laugh she said,
I believe you have a llama work to do.
Laurel Kirkwood