I learned a kind of poetry as a child,
The way my father’s hands,
Caressed a well sanded board and,
Built my brother’s bed.
I learned a kind of poetry as a boy,
Standing in the moonlit night,
As hounds bayed their story,
Across the countryside.
I learned a kind of poetry as a teen,
In the way the soil flowed,
Crumbling through the callused hands,
Of my sweating, hoping uncle.
I’ve learned a kind of poetry in my life,
In the way our widely scattered family,
Toils, lives, and loves each other,
Through the times of life.
By Clint Bowman
Nov. 2011