– By J.S. Porter
I like my poetry pure
Bug a boo, I love you.
That’s my daughter talking
to her soon- to- be-four son.
Perfect one- line poem,
three syllables before the comma and three after.
And maybe that’s how poetry begins
in every culture, every time:
a mother sings or whispers to a child
and the child’s body takes the words in.
The child claps or sways, hums along,
and repeats the words and repeats the words
so he becomes a poet too.