It’s March and still deeply winter-like. With thoughts of spring and the changing of every season, I remember the first poem my dad wrote 3 years ago. Here it is again.
Once upon a time, without poetry, people were unable “to sow wheat or barley, go out to sea in a ship, make their gods hear them, get well if they were sick, or fight their enemies.” (The Winged Horse). Whatever we used to do of importance would begin or end with poetry. Poetry was originally the work of the people, of all people of any color, rank, position, religion, tribe, or education.
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