For E.P.E. and her surgeon
What, one reasonably asks, are poems for?
The answer’s not so simple. They must bloom
With color, fragrance, substance at the core—
With words that swim, reverberate, and croon.
Those words must dance, duel, parry, stroke your mind,
Inflame your latent senses, all of them—
Provoke your spirit, forcing you to find
The stuff to love, the evil to condemn.
I know someone who’s suffered much of late.
She lost her husband, watched her brother die,
Relieved a grandchild from abuse, and saved
Her errant son before he went awry.
Most would have drowned, whelmed by a sea of pain,
But not Eileen—her beauty, strength, and grace
Keep her afloat; her empathy—the chain
That anchors her—commander of her space!
And, though her body’s turned on her—alas!
We—who know her well—know, this too, will pass!
(11/14/12)