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.
#5946/1-31-2016