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Oh, Poetry


Natalia Zaretsky

Oh, poetry
You are not a trumpet or marching band,
or an arrogant posture of conceit,
or harmful lie or bootlicking.

You are small streets in the city,
sweltering air in noon traffic,
a sleepy Midwestern town,
a storm with beating meadow
with slanted rain.

You are rubble from falling towers,
mountains that stretch out until fog
and blurs memories from different years
that resound between them.

Oh, poetry,
you carry rhythm and silence
that make up spring, sunset, nights.
You pass through other hearts,
leaving there road-marks
to find your way back to them
for inhale you again and again.

And I will be lost without you.

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