Poet Not

So are poets born, souls disconnected from them-selves and destined to ride the wind like helicopters shed by spring maples? Or are they made by wind and rain and creeping floods? Are they a different race, one born of red-bellied woodpeckers and mother cardinals, forever destined to view life through a microscopic lens dusted with faerie-weather? Or are they pressed together in the bowls of the earth where heat evokes a denizen of the deep who bends and shapes limbs and hearts? I do not know. Such questions are too lofty for me, for surely I am a simple man and a poet not.