("A poem . . . begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong . . . " -- Robert Frost)

A lump in the throat,
A sense of some wrong,
A vessel for sharing
A sigh or a song;

A cry of contrition,
A penance, a plea,
A moment for letting
Your fancy run free;

A sifting of ashes
Of passion and pain,
A balm for the heartaches
That ever remain;

A glimpse of redemption
Dispensed from above,
A means of expressing
The language of love;

For none but the poet
Is truly aware
Of the height of heaven
And the depth of despair.

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