I want to write a poem about this world,

not the world you see on cable, or hear

about on Facebook, or see in Washington.

I want to write a poem about the other world,

you do not need a passport or visa, you have one,

you do not have to take your shoes off,

or empty your pockets, or leave your pen behind.

In the world, the spider makes some art every night,

it is not for sale, he has no agent,

she signs no contract,

she needs no marketing plan,

the donkey brays to the morning sun,

the dog stretches and wants nothing more

than to be near you,

the proud little pansy quivers in the wind,

the chickens find the shade of the Lilac,

the barn cats worship the sun, and follow it all day,

the magnolia buds are sweet, if you smell them,

this world lives in the song of angels, the distant calling of the birds,

the radiant smile of my love, the chorus of angels,

singing to you, if you listen for them,

and then this sweet, sweet, sound of silence, the finest wine.

This world comes to all of us, small sounds, flashes of color and light,

faint smells, if we are not to distracted and hurried and worried to hear it.

This world is my world.

Is it yours?