Why be poetry, indeed? Because, evidently, I can't be anything else. Likewise, why be here. Take that, you insistent squirrel on the roof!
Even as I write, the sun's returning. The sweet autumn clematis tumbles all over the fence, where I can leave it in peace, only tearing away what strangles the lilac or approaches the electrical wires.
Later-blooming daisies in various pastels have patiently opened after the showier gloriosa daisies.
"You must change your life," said Rilke. So that's what I keep doing. I worked as an actor, wrote for an encyclopedia, edited a literary magazine, and taught college English courses. Now I write poetry, blog "eight days a week," and listen to birdsong.