Poets do not grow on trees,
but they do tend to inhabit gardens.
Poets are not above the law,
but the law is of no concern to them.
Poets have a mission, which is,
generally, impossible.
They run like any other human, but
are known to sprout antlers and wings
when least expected. All poets began
as children, back before the dinosaurs.
They grew aware of sun and moon,
flying saucers, mud, and old age.
They never forget an ancient touch, taste,
or smell, but can’t tell you what was for lunch
yesterday. They are Einstein’s theory
of relativity in the flesh. They don’t
split infinitives, except under duress.
Their shirts are clean, unpressed.
When awake, they dream.
When asleep, they work.
Poets are just as rowdy or quiet
as the next guy. They love the world
and will tell you in every rhythm imaginable,
and ask no wage for their tinkering.
Lisa Vihos
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