Tuesday, April 7, 2020


          "[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.