The Poet Speaks
by Carole Mertz

Waiting snug beneath snow-laden pines
longing for winters past, what then
must we see as we peer within, what
tests are yet to come?

The forest muffles our voices, the choices
we have are weighed. We tread deeper
and deeper into the wood, and wonder
what’s to come.

What singularities will yet slice through our lives
with puzzles difficult to solve,
and who will help us reach beyond
the questions that remain?

The poet brings the answer near, a mantle
of discretion–one must have, he said,
a mind of winter, waiting patiently
and with good cheer.

Birds fly near the chimney top, the sky
above is dark. Snow hangs heavy in the air,
a portent, proud, to darkly thrum the darkness
yet to come.

O dark night, you must flee, for you’ll
not have the victory! The poet’s mood of
plenitude will carry us through, rendered ready
for what’s to come.

The answer’s inscribed above and seen
via human inexactitude. That we need know
will be softly supplied and declared by the word
which is yet to come.



 

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