Monday, February 1, 2016
The Attic Staircase
Looking out of the window from the attic staircase at twelve years old I had illusions—; there,
I wrote my first poem “Who”— and,
Somehow I knew, He who makes the first step was there.
He who meets us where we are, was there.
We had talked once, walking up the old dirt road in back of our house, the one that leads up to Rice School, I was but ten, then!
I knew, —he who puts down the mighty from their thrones and exalts those of low degree—was there, that day, the day I wrote the poem.
Because now I’m here; how else does one account for this?
That I who am of low degree, became a Poet Laureate in a worthy standing, with a Doctor’s Degree.