This poet who could write <br />with voice of child, drawn <br />from eyes whose spark <br />had never dimmed <br /> <br />walked into traffic at 51 <br />to meet a solid, metal fate, <br /> <br />but the words of the wonderchild <br />still live in the books on library shelves, <br />need only a reader's <br />glance to ignite, <br />and what I want to know is <br /> <br />why fate had to be so solid <br />as it barrelled its say <br />to lay him low?<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/randall-jarrell/
