If I Wasn't a Poet

If I wasn't a poet and my hands did not know the weight of words
I think I would like to be a restorer of old clocks.
I would sit in a room that smells of oil and cold metal bending over the tiny frantic hearts of machines.
I would find the one gear that forgot how to turn and give it a reason to move again.
There is a quiet dignity in making time stay on its tracks.
Perhaps I would be a gardener for the blind.
I would plant things not for their colors but for the way they feel like velvet between the fingers or how they release a sharp green spirit when crushed.
We would walk through the rows and I would describe the sun as a warm hand on the shoulder and the rain as a thousand silver needles knitting the earth back together.
If I didn't spend my days chasing shadows of meaning,
I would be a builder of stone walls in the high hills.
No mortar and no glue.
Just the heavy logic of gravity.
I would learn the language of rocks finding the flat face of one to kiss the edge of another until they became a boundary that feels like a home.
But mostly, if I wasn't a poet,
I would simply be the person who listens.
I would sit on a wooden bench at the edge of the world and watch the way the light dies behind the trees.
I would not try to name the gold.
I would not try to save the red.
I would just let the night happen to me knowing that some things are too beautiful to ever be captured in a cage of ink.

Reviews

[Green]

I really enjoyed this. I think my favorite part was just the overall tone it had. Very matter of fact but still maintaining an introspection that often gets lost. We have all often pondered what we would be if we weren’t what we are but I know for sure mine was probably never this elegant.

[Max Rwizi, Jr.]

Thank you.