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Poem	At twenty-six, I was inexperienced; Still, I knew much about love In the waste land, reasoning, It's not important when you start Practicing, rather when you start searching; And I committed myself to finding It before others even knew it existed, 'breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing' My thoughts, my longings, my love For something that didn't need naming In the misty mornings, recognizing The dew on the petal, alive yet sleepy; I was a dreamer, I admit, thinking, April is the cruelest month, flying Thoughts about some distant teaching, Seeing invisible in the visible, loving Wild thoughts making love, searching To find it; love was a secret hard to decode— Sacred to me. Students talking Of business, Dante and Michelangelo; That was important, yet not so important In the land where death died long ago, blooming Roses taught me a lesson, doing My search for me, wakening The land where human measures are important Yet not so important; so I stayed, deserving A degree from real roses, forgetting The Ph.D. at Harvard, which for me was waiting Of course it was not about Michelangelo, But does it really matter? I saw paintings And landscapes, dead lands and lands Alive, knowing it's more important To feel than to know. I had it all in my head; And I stayed where dreaming Was more important than competing In the land where the women come and go, talking Of Sara Bernhardt and Coco Chanel in the Sistine Chapel And men come and go, talking Of wars, children come and go, talking Of chocolate, and they all go, leaving Not much to think about exchanging Experiences with feelings, transforming Experiences into meanings, mixing Thoughts about love evaporating Into 'the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes.' And in the end I understood April, learning That April seemed cruel only in the dead land, knowing That every month is equally paradisiacal and hellish, Equally paradoxical.
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