My friend, I don’t need to tell you
only children are called
to be poets if they’re lucky,
preachers if they’re not,
both compelled to Mystery,

that which descends
in the quiet of 4:00 a.m.,
a globed lamp, a writing table,
a shepherd dog
on guard at your feet.

Your pencil compels the Muse,
not always heavenly. Accept
what comes. Maybe later
you will unravel the imagery,
those flitting shadows

surprising as the sudden joy
of early morning neighborhood
foxes inviting you to their dance.
Being a preacher, you know God
spoke to more than prophets:

those drought-year ravens,
a den of lions, at least one whale,
sometimes a poet, certainly
a preacher. Only the poet
can hide behind the lines.