On a Notable Quote

"Poetry makes nothing happen." --W.H. Auden We see what we want in mirrors. The wind that incites the leaves to falling Makes nothing happen to those arched in expectancy. There is no celebration, no exaltation of watercolors Swept upon the textured sky taunt with time, Unbending. It haunts the halls with endeavor, Never ending: bows to sunsets, calls them clever While claret news clippings clutter rooms. Poetry like sterile tombs are places where living Seldom happens, forests turned fragile to saplings Not knowing of the wind, but rather the stirring; Without the song there are no cicada, only whirring.