What is Poetry

What is poetry?
The question still resonates
In my mind as, hours later,
I sit at my desk,
Pen poised over paper,
Trying to will the words to come,
Trying to remember exactly when,
I began to do this thing:
When images first were somehow
Caught from their erratic flight,
Pinned onto pages, and the flow of
Emotions somehow converged
Into pools of thought,
Defined by rhythm, rhyme-or not.
I see how poetry like students gray and blend,
One genre so like another,
Yet remain individuals,
Always a fleeting definition,
Never quite one thing or another,
Ever existing.