on poetry

it is the language of unseen
it is impossible speech
it is mud talking about mountains
or water imagining steam
it is flowers telling tales of their fragrance
specks of dust speaking highly of stars
it is soul finding form in a few letters
it is the glint of love in an eye
it is the invisible wanting to be seen
a memory trying to be real
a spirit looking for substance
or the smell of infinite size
it is the wonder of unseen faith
a sense of peace in a sudden, sharp world
it is silence making moves
a hint of sun on a rain-sodden day
it is the feeling of moon behind clouds
it is quietness squeezed between words
it is logic falling off the edge of reason
a twist of wind in an open sky
it is a face for a blind man only to feel
a hint of wisdom in seas of untruth
it is a slippery fish in the hands of a child
a taste remembered but not really heard
in its vagueness it is certain
but its certainty is elusive
it is not this
it is not that
but it is, it is…

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