You may as well ask a poet the meaning of his words,
as a bird the meaning of his song.

For the poet chooses only the first few halting words
before his song itself begins to sing.
Then he struggles with the notes, trying to
shape them as they take wing,

Clothing his deepest yearnings in truth
so clear that even he can see.

The bird sings and sometimes is heard and the notes shimmer
in the air before they fall and die.
The poet, launching words that may be less than dust hears,
and in hearing knows why.

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