The Poet’s Job

It is the poet’s job: Impossible . . . pos’ble; To hear a sound not heard, Describe the flight of birds, To feel a flake of snow, To touch a baby’s glow, To find the place unknown, To sing the song of silence; ‘Tis all this joy from words, It is the poet’s job. It is the poet’s job: Find why a feather’s soft, Why birds still glide aloft, Why mountains rise to joy, Prairies bound to endless, Oceans pound us senseless, It is the poet’s job. It is the poet’s job: To make the sounds so real, That even deaf can hear, To bring to life the braille, To make each other feel, Connections far away, Connect historic days, To bring these worlds forthwith; That is the poet’s gift, It is the poet’s job.

BWL

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