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"Be gentle with my emotions. I'm a poet you know. And I don't see how heavily the cold snow weighs down the tree branches... " R.B. O'Brien
To a poet, the world speaks in images only ink can capture. Every thought, every breath, every lover's sigh in love making, every sad moment, every doubt or fear, every time we fall in or out of love, every sound or sight in nature -- little birds' feet tap dancing or striking sunsets in clouds of smog or the too-hot sun or the loud crashing of the sea or the bright moon in a dark sky or leaves falling from a tree like unsent letters or the silence of a midnight walk in the city or every poetic love story that ends, or barren birch branches that expose peoples' secrets and oaks in spring filled with the budding of new secrets -- creates a thread of words like the thread one might use to sew a garment we still see so much life in.
Poetry is a way to see not only a perfect beautiful, but to see the beauty in the broken, in the cyclicality of death and rebirth. It's healing. It's cathartic. It's taking all the pieces to, somehow, make us whole, even if ephemeral, even if only until our ink must pour onto the pages again, even in the inevitable decay of flowers or sound of hymnal dirges, even in the beautiful blue bruises of January. And even-- as snow falls in winter.
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