Who is this person who
goes about with her head up
in the blue heavens plucking
white puffs from passing clouds,
weaves them into poems
until there is no cloud at all?

Who is this person who
goes about with her mind so
full of foolish things?
What does she think she’s doing,
ignoring the latest styles
in ladies’ hats and shoes,
missing social niceties
and other vital signs of life?

Who is this person who
goes about whipping out
a coil-bound notebook
at the slightest stimulation,
hunting for a pen, fearing
some precious thought will vanish
before she’s tacked it down
in scrawling lines of poetry.

Who is this person who
thinks she can demonstrate
why we feel the way we do
or how we should look
at some unusual bloom
or distant arcing rainbow
when we have so much more
important work to do.
Odd, isn’t she?