Three Black Cottonwood Leaves in Tire Tracks
—On the road in the American Northwest.
. . . Life without Poetry . . .
"There's no money in poetry,
but then there's no poetry in money,
Imagine a world without shadow. The end of photography.
Imagine a world without echo. The end of music.
Imagine a world without the rhyming of meaning that is metaphor. The end of poetry.
Worlds in which nothing is hidden, nothing implied,
and nothing resonates beyond its own boundaries. Dry, harsh, lifeless worlds
in which the human spirit only with great difficulty can survive.
This is the world inhabited by the literal man.
For the literal man, everything means exactly what it says.
It is a world reduced to shards, bits, broken pieces
that are perceived as the hard, necessary,
unavoidable facts of daily life.
No more, no less. Life without poetry.
As the apple falls, so too does the moon. Pure science.
Moral compass. Pure poetry.
Where these end, we enter an unknown, pathless land. Pure religion.
Always more, never less. Life with poetry.
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