POETRY
Poetry is the mysterious associate
I introduce to a few
friends and acquaintances.
Poetry wears an ascot to hide
the throat hole, the source of the song
since the operation.
Poetry is the enigmatic emissary,
always difficult,
always elusive.
Poetry is my comforter,
wrapping a motley mantle
about my swiveling ears.
Poetry is my lover —
mine only —
though nothing is ever declared.
Poetry is my silent advisor,
pointing with trembling excitement
to the flowering moon,
to the green streaks in old granite.
Poetry is my inscrutable opponent
putting tigers in my path,
disturbing my earthly devotions.
Poetry is a courier of insight
the journey often oblique,
the message artful in its simplicity.
Poetry delivers its truth
just as the oracle does,
long after I have passed by.
—Maggie Morley