A poet does not forfeit his ache when hunger is slain or thirst quenched. He, as a shepherd, fathoms the value of time, the way it trickles over stone, a stream that smooths crag and crook. He listens when trees share their stories. He accepts that his voice is just one thread in a cord that reaches before him and behind, far beyond the length of his senses.
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Well said! Everything has a story waiting to be told; most people don’t take the time to hear and record it.
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Thank you!
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