A poem is a capsule of emotion,

Locked in time

When words cannot suffice alone.

Language flows like a river

When the similes and metaphors

Ride over the idioms and cliches

That take the nuances away.

A moment spent in its articulated structure

Is a lecture under a scaffold in the garden,

Where the fruits of our knowledge

Grow like vines until they are ripe.

The mature lexicon is a flowering bud

Eagerly awaiting the harvest by fertile minds.

Assigned to each author is a unique species of grape

To serve as fresh wine

When the capsule is meant to be opened.

Seasons arrive. Seasons pass.

Life becomes art

When the flow of moments subducts the flow of words

Until they are indistinguishably one.

The currents merge; new poems emerge.

All of our labors are legitimized by the next generation of poets,

As an extensive library of legacies.

This is the sign of a job well done.

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