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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