Poetry is a language. To speak it
you must be fluent in the languages
of those you love, be they Mary Oliver, 
William Stafford, Seamus Heaney

Elizabeth Bishop. You must remember
how the scent of lilac tastes creamy 
on your tongue, how words like 
serendipity and archetype frizzle 

through your brain. Keep 
the conversation going, even when
you feel you can’t keep up, when
you’re afraid you’ll never have more

than a tourist’s dim understanding 
of the dense richness of the text.