I Am Not a Poet

I am not a poet.
I inherited this language.
It writes and says its way with me,
Flowing from the Who-Knows-Where
With degrees of speed and notoriety.
My sieve may have some holes,
But it’s what I have and use.
Words come to here,
No matter what the weather or
Degree of internal heat.
Anticipation makes me melt,
So I freeze the water and wait.
But under the ice is movement,
Which trickles and sings down to earth,
And waits for the thaw from above.
I cannot break the ice;
The weather must do it.
And I wait for the
Bird who will fly through my holes to the
Sky.