For my wife.it reads:
Poetry? One might say its mystery
Is which word affords a second thought
It belongs neither to is nor ought
And is but disaster mastery
A floundering task, dare we ask
Dare we uncork its musky cask?
And see what starts a sprig of vine
Though wilted, small and not the best
Marred by weather, gnawed by pest
In time does somehow yield its wine?
The best ideas will all die fast
For poesy's ocean is far too vast
For mere human ideology
The words themselves! They have a will
As thought itself wished to fulfill
Some order of a meal for three
With wine? We must uncork again
But think instead, if but now and then
That the poet is the diamond's point
Along the groove of words to wend
And wind, as the platter draws to an end
Sharpen your mind, or else, aroint!
For cleverness here has a place
Not merely a show of poker-face
For the grooves inside are infinite
The trick cannot be what you think
It's how to beach and not to sink
There is far, far less control of it
Otherwise we may say it cannot be
Poetry? One might say it's mystery.