Fruit off the vine
Is like a line
Of poetry.
You slowly grew
And so you knew
Of poetry.
Poetry is time.
Time, here’s a rhyme
Of poetry.
The fruit must drop.
The line must stop
For poetry.
What is the line
If not imagined
Pleasure to see?
And to hear—
If poetry’s fear
Made the poet lucky?
I feared poetry
In my younger days;
The music plays
To insult poetry sometimes
With its rhymes.
But speech will get its revenge
When amid the hullabaloo
You say, “Did you know I love you?”
Then music will seem kind,
Sweet food for the blind,
And you and poetry
Will be of one mind.
