To you, readers, I say

I am no writer -

these words

placed themselves

on my page

to tell a story

To you, writers, I cry

I am no chronicler -

these tales

spun their web

through my mind

to make a memory

To you, poets, I sing

I am no rhymer -

these lines

etched their pattern

on my paper

to form a psalm

To you, who come, I whisper

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improved version!

I read a poem

                about a dresser

                and all the memories it held.

I remembered

                one thing

                in a sideboard.

I remembered

                a long cone shape

                wrapped in cord

                containing something

                hard and dark brown, that smelled.

I never knew

...

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