"[I]f Poetry comes not as naturally
as the Leaves to a tree it had better
not come at all."
—John Keats
There are times when the staggering
awe of the sublime
would only impair our
ability to function;
when painlessness
and clarity
and the inconsiderable pleasures become
the rule of thumb.
Just now, it is April
all across America—as we watch
the dense ruddy buds
and delicate gauze-white flowers
gradually grow to
overwhelm the branches;
and like it or not, all of those
prim little poems they promise—
so predictable, decorous, basically
dime-a-dozen—are not just
our most equitable hope;
they are the only option.
