When I marvel at what my fingertips can do:
just a touch and many poems fly out of here
to places far and near —
it is a different kind of marveling
than when I stand in awe before a sunrise
or pause to watch an albino squirrel
climb a live oak tree.
The first option is fairly new.
I never marveled when I used a typewriter —
corrected its mistakes with white-out
and pulled the paper out —
folded it, put it in an envelope
addressed that — and then put on a stamp.
And, what would it cost me
to send a hundred poems
several times a week, to a variety of friends?
So there is more to marvel at now
in this dangerous world of shootings
and violence and terrorism.
I can see so much of that —
(the beauty and the terribleness)
by using that same finger —
the one that allows me
to touch your world
with words that I assemble