When the sky lies heavy and silver

Upon a pale, jade sea

And the waves rush cold and foamy

Over my toes--the whisper of a song,

An unspoken, sweet loneliness,

Lifts my hair with the salty seabreeze

And I see before me

A living poem.

It is poetry that gives warmth to the morning sun

Kissing my eyelids every morning,

The euphoria of speeding down a deserted freeway

At midnight, with the city lights shivering

On the surface of the water.

It is the my heart throbbing when I get a text from Him,

When I am staring out the window

On a rainy day, a cooling cup of tea held loosely in my hands,

And a thousand quiet dreams lift me to

Sunnier skies, more mellow evenings.

When He and I are sitting on a stone bench

Upon a hill shrouded in swirling mist,

And watch the fog obscure the lights

One by one.

It is the filter through which the world becomes

More beautiful, more melancholy,

More broken, more majestic,

More mysterious, more lonely,

Darker, richer, greater…

And much more worth living in.

It is the fame of Byron and Wordsworth and Eliot,

Whose words we savor today

As of the most exorbitant delicacy.

It is the expression of the laws of man,

Yet impossible to define.

It gives heartbeat to the most ordinary act,

The most mundane task. It makes fluid

The jarring ruts of life,

Suffuses the darkest hour with the rosy glow of dawn.

It is, to me, the salt and light of life.

I write it, I create it, I feel it, I absorb it

To make sense of things,

To give expression to my every sorrow and joy;

It is as natural to me as it is to walk in an autumn drizzle—

I am so drawn to its simple joy

That I could not do otherwise.

It is a gift I was given at birth,

To put words to the feelings in the deepest

Corners of my soul; to give them strength

Rather than to allow them to nestle in

Unuttered uncertainty.

I write it because, while mathematics is the architect of the universe—

Poetry is its language. And so I create it.

I can do no other.