all this poetry . . . it’s just a consolation
for something lost, something absent, missing
some intangible it which life in its abundant
glory fails to furnish . . . and yet, perhaps
this is the purpose of life itself, to fill some
void abhorred by nature . . . all that poetry
can do is observe and sing it to witness
among the fiery vaults of the universe.
all this poetry is but a sweet diversion
from that missing it, that don’t-know-what life
hides from us so that we must continue
searching, turning over stones, listening
to every conch for elusive ocean,
gazing skyward for constellations of truth.
David M Pitchford
31 Oct 2011