Yes, they are rare.
\nPoets remembering and dying.
\nStruggling because they are children.
\nTrying to grow into something
\nno one fathoms, but themselves.
\nAnd they pass unseen among us.
\nThey do not publish their hearts
\npretend they have souls.
\nThey do not wander in drawing rooms
\nor teach school.
\nThey do not come from one society,
\na particular age,
\na minimal intelligence.<\/p>\n
They are just beautiful inside,
\nlike geodes, plain or rough,
\ncircumstantially glamorous,
\nperfectly formed,
\nor tender as newborn.
\nAnd brave confronting the world.
\nI have encountered poets
\nwho write only with their eyes,
\nwho have a gift for touch,
\nwho can modulate thunder
\nin a quiet voice.
\nWho are as ephemeral as snowflakes,
\nand as unforgettable.
\nSecret as a panther
\nin love with night.<\/p>\n
A mother speaking to her baby,
\na warrior pulling an arrow
\nfrom his heart
\nand watching the sun go down.
\nThey are wonder
\nwalking among us,
\ncomets scattering themselves
\nin the heavens,
\nand teaching us to breathe
\nthe deep, sweet anguish
\nof their poems.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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…<\/p>\n