A poem is not a painting,
so don’t just look at it.
Don’t keep it silent.
It is a song of celebration
to sing
to hum
to chant to a god
with an attentive ear.
Croon it
to the marsh grasses
who sway to its rhythm.
Shout it out
to the early morning crow
who mimics its words.
Never leave it
to atrophy in a book
or languish on a wall,
only to be read by mute eyes.
Blast it from a radio,
scream it in a dream—
moan it from a mountain top,
howl it to the sea.

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