We live awash in swirled analogy,
As meaning must, within contextual knowns
Be placed, so as to make a tapestry
Of concepts, bordering on homophones
I write myself, inside myself, each day,
Then try to cross, adjacently, to you;
It’s poetry, indeed, that is the way,
Familiar, placed aside the strange and new
As boats that ride the storm towards the light
Are like the hopes we hold with all else gone;
So poetry is like the world itself –
A place to stand together
And upon
To share is human:
