Wayfarer

Do you call yourself a poet
So you become one

Or only after you become one
Do you call yourself a poet

A single cobweb
Shimmers golden
In the a shaft of late summer light

Racing myself
Trying to keep up

I allowed the world
To squeeze me
Into its mold

For only the obedient
Can believe

When the Blue Spruce Inn
Burned to the ground

I realized
Poetry is at the opposite end of a cookbook