Poetry Reading
I listen to the young men
in their black turtlenecks
who spit their consonants forcefully
in cryptic metaphors
about the state of the world.
Their work makes me think.
I guess this means it is good.
But I will never be
one of the edgy poets.
The sight of a bare tree
tugs on my soul,
and the stones whisper to me,
and I must write
about the lonely winter rain
and the cherry blossoms –
in softer voice,
simpler words,
a few lines to sketch
the small, quiet wonders
I so love.
April 23, 2017
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