Poetry’s Balm

Poet is not a profession. If you are doubly blessed, you permit yourself this grand medicine. All the world’s pills can’t do the work of a poem. All the poems of the world can’t do the work of a strong cool breeze, chimes in the distance. All the music in the world is nothing but raindance. All the rain is applause. Not every song is tears of sorrow — some rain reminds poets where instruments come from.

Trees are different at night. Done with their day’s work mining sunlight, pushing sap, they don’t sleep but rest — holding second jobs housing birds in rainstorm, spooking children outside windows. Some become wood for houses, keeping men dry. Some become instruments for poets.