Boothbay Harbor, ME
How do these present times
change what you write? the poet asked.
Another poet responded,
It means we can’t write
about blueberries anymore.
The poets, around the circle, wiped their tears
as another rose,
In this present time,
in this necessity to write of what is real
and what matters most
how can we NOT write
I mean, in our time of such ugliness
who will recall us to beauty?
I mean the shape and fragrance of it,
how in this small blue orb rise oceans and seas,
mountain lakes and tears.
Who in our time of such grim truths,
will tell of the surprise of discovery,
I mean, this patch of bushes we discovered along the mountain trail
as it opened out of the dark woods onto the rocky peak?
Who will remind us in such a time of bitter discord
of the taste of sweetness?