The Silence of Poetry

When poetry is silent

you can't hear it with your ears,

you don't hear it when you're kind,

you never hear it with your philosophy,

you can't hear it with your mind.

You won't hear it in a song,

or find it in a breeze,

it will hide from your sight

like an eel in the sea.

It will flee from your sight

a cloud across your brow,

then confound your expectations

with flopping whimsy flight.

When words are waifs in the wind

then your poems are fine,

far better than dusty dreams,

like mine.