Yes, they are rare.
Poets remembering and dying.
Struggling because they are children.
Trying to grow into something
no one fathoms, but themselves.
And they pass unseen among us.
They do not publish their hearts
pretend they have souls.
They do not wander in drawing rooms
or teach school.
They do not come from one society,
a particular age,
a minimal intelligence.
They are just beautiful inside,
like geodes, plain or rough,
circumstantially glamorous,
perfectly formed,
or tender as newborn.
And brave confronting the world.
I have encountered poets
who write only with their eyes,
who have a gift for touch,
who can modulate thunder
in a quiet voice.
Who are as ephemeral as snowflakes,
and as unforgettable.
Secret as a panther
in love with night.
A mother speaking to her baby,
a warrior pulling an arrow
from his heart
and watching the sun go down.
They are wonder
walking among us,
comets scattering themselves
in the heavens,
and teaching us to breathe
the deep, sweet anguish
of their poems.