Glopowrimo 29-2

Meditation 2

To myself I asked today the question long unasked
Why do we write, and read poetry?
As if I had forgotten my own face, or become blind
How it looked now, and needed a mirror or someone else to describe
My face, to myself, again to see.

Years fell away, and I became young again
Reading Coventry Patmore's "The Toys"
Whoso readeth this touches not just its words
Or a poem, but a man, a father, God and life
And children and their kinship to parents, mortal and immortal!

Years later, I still read and write
Poetry with a hunger that's insatiable
For the same reason, to connect thus, totally, with others
And hope they feel as connected to my words

It's expressing and communicating
Our deepest selves to each other
For in life, we see through the glass, darkly
But in poetry we sometimes see as we are seen
Know as we are known

As: at the Second Coming, when we see Him as He is
Our transformation's evident, to what degree we attained
And no secret is hid, and everything is revealed