A New Leaf

At the risk of appearing unbearably sensitive to one group and unbearably pretentious to another, I am going to admit that yes, I read poetry. It is the literary equivalent of a chef's reduction sauce; language distilled to its purest essence.

At its best, every syllable, the very sound of the words, contributes to its message. Poems are a world of thought expressed in a few dozen lines.

So it was with great relish that I read this one, which appeared in Heidi Stevens' Balancing Act column in last Sunday's Chicago Tribune. It was written by Maggie Smith and is titled Rain, New Year's Eve.  

It couldn't be more perfect for a world (and a population) as battered and broken as ours.

   The rain is a broken

piano,

   playing the same note

over and over.

   My five-year-old said

that.

   Already she knows

loving the world

   means loving the

wobbles

   you can't shim, the

creaks you can't

   oil silent – the jerry-

rigged parts,

   MacGyvered with twine

and chewing gum.

   Let me love the cold

rain's plinking

   Let me love the world the

way I love

   my young son, not only

when

   he cups my face in his

sticky hands,

   but when, roughousing,

   he accidentally splits my

lip.

   Let me love the world

like a mother.

   Let me be tender when it

lets me down.

   Let me listen to the rain's

one note

   and hear a beginner's

song.