What Is Poetry?
An art that’s pale
and passing frail,
a phantom, lacking form:
the trellis rose
already knows
it won’t withstand the storm.
When afternoon
reveals the moon,
a frisson frets the bower:
the sun shifts round,
the banquet’s drowned
by shadows of the tower.
Though we be dust,
create we must,
albeit for an hour
and all our toil
will surely spoil,
so readily devoured.
One half creates,
one half predates
– the universal norm:
so what remains,
but petal stains?
the imperative to perform!
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