Does One Call Oneself a Poet?

I wonder, what makes one a poet? And perhaps not the general case, but the self-centered case.

Am I a poet?

I write poetry. I am an adept conjurer of analogies and metaphors. I have an above average command of the English language. I write poems, scratching out words to find the best (in the moment) forms, sometimes returning to prior phrases.

At our local library, next week we’re kicking off a Personal Curriculum series. I had been considering poetry as mine—though ham radio just joined the consideration.

My bedroom bookshelf is packed with poetry. On occasion—though not often enough—I find myself grabbing a book and reading a few poems. Life pours from these works, bathing me in warmth.

We were driving back home, and as we were passing a wooded area that chirps and whistles in spring from the tree frogs. At that moment, while driving in silence, Jenny asked me what I was thinking about, I responded: frogs.

That spot along with the neighbors saying that a large bullfrog had come out of hibernation earlier this month; when we had 55° Fahrenheit weather (and rain).

Which inspired the following haiku:

Amidst icy woods
New moon hiding snow and branch
In the thaw, frog song.