I have it all backwards,
not moved by the intricacies
of an autumn maple leaf,
not in awe of ocean surf,
no need or desire to describe
the dark closet of my childhood
home or the fear felt when
the air raid siren wailed.
No words burn so intense
that I must bare my soul,
so call me cold. But it is
something I’ve chosen to
create. A poem, the flower
I plant today to admire
tomorrow, the red striped tie
with the perfect windsor knot,
the final coat of varnish
on a scalloped picture frame.