The Poets' Ambition

I wished to pluck apart the delicate intricacies of this world,

As a musician might pluck the strings of a harp,

Each movement so small, detailed

But resounding forth, a note from the heavens,

Smoothing the air until slowly it fades as a ripple does in a pond.

I wished to explain the unexplainable,

As a professor might teach her students.

To speak of the stars, in their infinite life,

Expanding outward to places only seen by the angels,

Surrounding the entirety of earth in a shimmering blanket.

I wished to create significance from the seemingly insignificant.

To study for days a creature like an earthworm,

And detail its path and the paths of its kin,

Trailing in the soil, crisscrossing, like the ridges of a fingerprint.

I wished to take my feelings and write them in ink,

As every poet has tried to do,

To describe scents in colors and tastes in sounds,

But my language has no words, no colors, nor sounds

To ever come close to describing the feelings of my soul.