to see the world with a poet’s heart
is to put into words how
sage’s fragrance calls you home.
to express the world in a poet’s pen
is to turn the silence of growing lichen into a song.
a poet’s work is to give voice to the unspeakable

from a raven in high altitude,
calling in the day for the residents of an alpine lake
to the twisted trunks and limbs of bristlecone pines
that, over centuries, have spun
into the sky as if in prayer

but then there is the vastness of the night sky
away from city lights, with stars
as manifold as the shimmer in haematite
the milky way even visible to the short-sighted

fold the galaxy and put it in the poet’s pocket
look for the metaphor that will unfold it