some poets will wait
at dawn on the back porch
for the sun to blush
the beginning of day
some will pause cliffside to a canyon
at a waterfall in its crashing pool
or on a dark forest path
in the cool of midday
others like waiting on a cloudy night
for a peek-a-boo moon
then sit by a cozy fire
and drink the burn from a bottle
everyone has their perch or place
for scripting poetry ready for
the sound of a crushed leaf
watch the flushed thing take flight
and begin to write
although every once in awhile
something crashes into the poet
knocks them down
gashes or cuts
and then none of us
has any choice but to
thread their pens and
immediately start closing
those first-degree wounds