So what is the finding of a friend
but the gradual peeling of an orange—
the tough rind begins to yield,
and the rich, juicy fruit drips in your hands,
and you taste sweetness
that quenches a life-thirst.
~Carol Bialock, “The Finding of a Friend” from Coral Castles

A poem should be palpable and mute   
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless   
As the flight of birds.

                         *               

A poem should be motionless in time   
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,   
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time   
As the moon climbs.

                         *               

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean   
But be.
~Archibald Macleish (1892-1982) “Ars Poetica” from Collected Poems 1917 to 1982

A poem is a good friend who is revealed gradually,
someone you get to know so well you want to hear
once again the sound of its voice.

Its words quench your thirst for insight,
yet its silence is also part of the rhythm.

It is cyclical as the phases of the moon, ever-changing
yet never-changing, entangling your mind before setting you free.

It may take on a new appearance on the next reading,
opening up questions and a new destination.

It leans into you, in comfort, and
offers illumination.

Like a good friend, a poem simply becomes…
…what you seek,
…what you want,
…what you need.