I read a sad poem about a puppy,
a metaphor for something
that wrapped my heart
around my sleeve, bleeding,
while I became that feeling.
The poet has moved on,
now probably composing something happy,
clever or one of those poems that linger
in vastness of eternal moment,
a glimpse of mystic silence.
Poets have such a beautiful, gentle, mysterious task
to use words as beams, illuminating
little pieces in the kaleidoscope of our humanity.
Their role is about revelation,
about light, sight, wonder.
Most of all,
their poems are a form of love
so powerful as to create
a simple story about a puppy,
then transform me.
(For Poets United.)