Wages

“In timeless magic, lofty trees don blankets made of virgin snow…” This imagery is sewn to please in ways that only poets know. Inquire of nature, “What’s the time?” and watch the day sink into night, but hear the image in a rhyme and see without the need for sight. For life and love and beauty’s sake, at banquets spread in poets minds, of metered sweetness men partake in verses of the many kinds. What then could poet’s wages be but joy and peace… and sanity? .