Most of the things a poet has to say <br />are tentative, lists of foggy clues <br />and suppositions-an unattested version <br />of the way the wind breathes at night, <br />an essay at atmosphere, predictions <br />as unreliable as weather forecasts. I stab <br />at the truth with a pencil, sometimes, <br />moved too suddenly to words by the shadings <br />on a cloud, or its shape, shivering <br />at a hint of thunder (sure that it <br />means something) . <br /> <br />But in the lines set down on paper <br />all suggestions become categories- <br />intuition or illusion edited to sound <br />like logic. Naked ideas turn assertive <br />in print, sharp, as intricate <br />as the edges of a woods in winter seen <br />against a blank sky. The most fluid <br />of impressions hardens like frozen <br />rain. A cold front is passing over. <br />I hazard a guess; you take it <br />for reality.<br /><br />Luci Shaw<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/freezing-rain/
