Reserve time for poetry in April,
for when the days get longer, we turn out
after our deep hermitage, rushing
too fast to learn from the budding world.

Reserve time for poetry in July
when the hammering sun tempts you
to spend your best hours dozing,
as the herons skim the river.

Reserve time for poetry in September
when you are wizened to spin against nature’s
endless detritus and to button up under
even the softest bluster of coming solitude.

Reserve time for poetry in December
as the season sweeps you away
and piles you with ancient customs
you must never love too much.

The world does not think of you as it rolls by,
so you must think of it:
it does not stop to warm your soul,
so you must stop and warm its;
it does not offer you its heart,
so you must offer it yours.

Thinking of my oldest son graduating from college in a few weeks and how he is taking the grownup world so seriously …