It’s not so much because
poems make things better—
don’t heal the sick, don’t
stop a war, don’t make the bread
any less stale, don’t bring
people back from the dead.
But poems do have a way
of making me feel more
okay with the world not
being the way I wish it were.
They say yes to the world,
again and again, telling it
like it is. And then,
like a dandelion
already gone to seed,
they wait for the gust
that will strip them bare
until all that’s left
is a hint that once
there was something
lovely here.