More Stolen Words

A dear old friend of my family and brilliant writer, Steve Kuusisto, posted a poem on his blog this morning that made me smile so I've decided to repost it here for all of you. My father once said that the aim of poetry is to bring back the dead. He hasn't yet explained to me how this works but Steve's poem puts me in mind of the idea.

How Poetry Works

I wasn’t one of those who believed in the end of days.

I gave a butterfly my fingertip.

I was sweaty, loving, crude, open, honest, and bookish.

I didn’t just "believe" in the Bill of Rights,

I wove my clothing from its threads.

I held the kelson of creation and a dying man

And knew they are the same.

I saw the constitution of the living and of the dead

And knew they are the same.

Sometimes in the sweetness of a summer’s hour

I held the face of the man I loved

And I held the face of the woman I loved

For all faces are divine

Reposed in the ardor

Of the sky.

What did I tell you anyway?

Poems hold so tightly to everything, everyone--

There is no good time to go.

These leaves know nothing

But light and dark

And how to live.

--S.K.