Where does poetry live?

Does it stand tall on majestic mountain tops?
Singing to the clouds
Whispering to the raindrops
Or perhaps it resides even higher
Dancing in the very place
Where they say love itself is born?

Is it on the street?
Weaving gracefully through footsteps
Smiling at the laughter of children
Tickling the windchimes that sway in soft breezes
In the pleasant conversations
Of old friends and amiable strangers
Does it breathe in and out with every kiss?

Is it in the trenches?
Wandering slowly
Burrowed in the depths of despair
Quiet in the souls of the soulless
Softly stitching together the hearts of the shattered
In the distant grey dreams of the seemingly forgotten?

I say yes.
In the skies, blue and expansive
In the rhythmic ticks and tocks of each day
In the darkest places, deep and mournful
Poetry lives.