From the beginning,
we were tadpoles
swimming in a new lake
of explosive ideas and modern poetry.
We were baby cows,
stumbling over non-romantic,
weird and vague
poems of Dickinson and Whitman.
Then, we moved.
We walked straight like we weren’t drunk on
the changes of writing and the
Imagists and the New York School and the Beats.
We were teenagers, still growing
into our own people
rebelling against the modern, beat-driven, image-central,
school-like poems we read everyday.
Finally, we grew.
We became stars,
our own planets of thoughts and writings.
We know how to analyze—looking deep into the eyes of Es.
And now,
now we look back,
and see exactly how we grew.
Every story has a beginning
and hopefully,
this story has no end.