And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me.  I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.....from "Poetry," by Pablo Neruda

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"At the Right Time," a Response
(c), 2006, Karla Dorman

I know where I was when it came, when it
illuminated the dank, forgotten spaces
of my soul.  Anger and bitterness
were embalmed with visions the color of
dirty snow falling from brilliant
blue September skies.
I know where they came from, these
painful sounds swelling my eyes; they came
from behind the defenses
of cemented walls I'd constructed
around my heart -
it ripped me onto the page, this
exposure of healing Poetic light
when I needed it the most, 
continuing from past to present.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~