Poets are scouts, I imagine,
the ones hiking into the thicket of every day—
stumbling over rocks, stepping over roots—
until they reach the meadow
where golden light casts shadows
on a rusted wheelbarrow
and a wise old pear tree.
No weeping over sunsets
or hiding under the veil of rhyme
the poetic mind is an architect
seeking metaphor to support the cabin roof.
They understand that a mug
is not just a vessel for caffeine
but a ceramic memory of the evening,
a ballad ready to be poured.
They’re the ones perpetually braced for the surprise—
haunting whistle of the train,
dust motes afloat on beams of light, their senses
like a lover in front of the open window waiting.
They build worlds from nothing
a handful of vowels and consonants,
phrases split and stacked like firewood
until the hearth is glowing warmly.
When they offer us an image—
a green two-wheeler leaning against the tool shed,
a terra cotta tray with a steaming pot of tea,
it is real enough to touch,
yet it exists in the strange flickering space
where the known and the unknown
sit on that park bench, sharing a pizza
while waiting for moonrise.
© 2026 Bruno Talerico
194/365
Inspired by writings of Billy Collins
Desert Dweller 
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