A work of art opens a void
A work of art opens a void, a moment of silence, a question without an answer,
provokes a breach without reconciliation where the world is forced to question itself.
I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
a tree that looks at God all day,
and lifts her leafy arms to pray;
a tree that may in summer wear
a nest of robins in her hair;
upon whose bosom snow has lain
who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me
but only God can make a tree.