In daunting storms and high tides, it screams.
At lazy times it sleepily dreams
while in peaceful hours it rests in silence
as we mourn humanity’s ugly violence.
The half of beauty is ineffable
this struggle of ages unchangeable;
alas the poet’s loss to decipher or notate
to crystalize and create.
The task of the poet and philosopher
is to package the wonder of the world
to chronicle the meanderings of the heart
like Yates, Ondaatje, Boland, Sartre.
Or as in the case of Wordsworth
to capture Nature’s mirth
to make real, enliven, concretize
heartache for the mist and fireflies
cliffs and wild flower smells
nostalgic river swells
in which the poet took delight
considering this bounty his birthright.
Every rose and lupine succulent
a gift from the glowing firmament
God’s melody and Wordsworth’s lyric
food for humanity’s aching spirit.