This is a poem I should read.
It's called "Christmas Improvisations."
And I dedicated this to Roy Harvey Pierce, whose name
might be familiar to you.
I am the poet of peace, numbering in my words
the harm that has been, not ignoring the future,
the world can be shattered by a pin.
In my youth, I sat and mope and dreamed up goodwill
to all and their contentment.
I was discontented except in this dreaming.
And I decided that too was real, I
did not have to go out and slaughter for it.
These cannot be words alone to salve my pride,
I have died and I can live again.
Close to the ranks of men as I saw it from the start,
in my single way, now I see it needs
myself broken apart and scattered in profusion,
at which I no longer lie in pain, seeing myself
in multiple illusion.
Alive we say, look, we are alive and seek
for someone who says yes out of a cloud or a tree
or the chirp of a bird suddenly intelligible.
We would jump into that cloud, that tree
or catch the bird to fly us through the eternal air,
say we would be happy.