A poet sees, beyond the sky,
Beneath the skin, behind the lie,
The bad in good, the good in bad;
The fun that lies in every fad;
The humor in the alibi.
The colors of the butterfly
That you’ll look quickly, if you spy;
The reds of forests, Autumn-clad,
A poet sees.
The universe may be awry–
He is the fixer, on the sly:
He may not help it: still, he’ll try.
He sees, and jots it on a pad
For those who, blind, must think him mad.
These are the things, I testify,
A poet sees!
by Ray Romine Tuesday, January 18, 1944
