change what you write? the poet asked.
Another poet responded, It means we can’t write
about blueberries anymore.
The poets, around the circle, wiped their tears
as another rose,
In this present time,
in this necessity to write of what is real
and what matters most
how can we NOT write
I mean, in our time of such ugliness
who will recall us to beauty?
I mean the shape and fragrance of it,
how in this small blue orb rise oceans and seas,
mountain lakes and tears.
Who in our time of such grim truths,
will tell of the surprise of discovery,
I mean, this patch of bushes
we discovered along the mountain trail as it opened
out of the dark woods onto the rocky peak?
Who will remind us in such a time of bitter discord
of the taste of sweetness?
Who will speak clearly of stains,
the futility of saving ourselves from them,
on lips and the white shorts you knew better than to wear
but couldn’t help yourself for summer is made for times like this,
I mean, the messy juiciness of it all.
Who in these times will take the time
to tell of that summer day on the mountain
how we picked berries one by one
placing them with care in our buckets,
filling our mouths,
careful lest we lose one precious pearl?