The Woman Who Made Me a Poet ~ a poem

The Woman Who Made Me a Poet

Unaware, the woman

who made me a poet

goes about her days

in a house full of dogs.

Different dogs, now,

than those that crowded us

on the couch and I

do not know their names.

Not that it matters. I have

words now, sleeping at

my side, fetching memories

I toss upon the green

lawns of years ago.

And the woman who made

me a poet does not

know these games; she does

not know these words that found

their way to my door,

tails wagging, begging to be

taken in. She does

not know they speak of her.

Stephen Brooke ©2015

Although I have not been in 'poet mode' recently, the phrase that became the title to this piece came to me this morning and I had to write this. An all-at-once poem, not one crafted over a period of time, and therefor rather simple in structure (roughly accentual) and concept.