Seeking the gift of poets
I prayed to see beauty.
So I Combed the wharf and the lane,
Searched the fields and the rivers,
I waded the teeming masses,
But in frustration and spite
I cried out to God that
a muse I could not discover.
For all I found was a man haggard and worn,
his youth spent on the waves of the sea;
A woman of twenty, a body of sixty,
her slight frame riddled by drugs;
A couple old and stooped holding hands,
their love devoid of physical beauty.
Finally, I spied a harried young mother,
children in tow, her husband deployed a far.
An answer then came quiet and sweet,
“If only you’d learn the beauty of people, and nature, and things
unknown to the human eye
For in extremity and struggle is the labor of living, and
poetry is beauty expressed without eyes.”