The Work Of The Poetry Is To Name What Is Holy -- Diane Ackerman

The work of the poet

is to name what is holy:

the spring snow

that hides unevenness

but also records

a dog walked at lunchtime,

the hieroglyphs of birds,

pawprints of a life

tiny but resolute;

how, like Russian dolls,

we nest in previous selves;

the lustrous itch

that compels an oyster

to forge a pearl,

or a poet a verse;

the drawing on of evening

belted at the waist;

snowfields of diamond dust;

the cozy monotony

of our days, in which

love appears with a holler;

the way a man's body

has its own geography––

cliffs, aqueducts, pumice fields,

but a woman's is the jungle,

hot, steamy, full of song;

the brain's curiosity shop

filled with quaint mementos

and shadow antiques

hidden away in drawers;

the plain geometry

of you, me, and art––

our angles at rest

among shifting forms.

The work of the poet

is to name what is holy,

and not to mind so much

the pinch of words

to cope with memories

weak as falling buildings,

or render loss, love,

and the penitentiary

of worry where we live.

The work of the poet

is to name what is holy,

a task fit for eternity,

or the small Eden of this hour.