Poetry has a silent power 

In the way that poets 

don’t need words to communicate 

With one another; 

We simply see a wildflower 

Sprouting from a chip in concrete, 

Or the sky 

Smattered with stars, 

Or a tree branch 

Coiled with winter lights, 

And our eyes shimmer; 

Our breaths lengthen,

Our lungs blossoming with each one,

The corners of our lips turning up

Until we reach into our bags

To pull out a pen

And start scrawling

On whatever paper we have

Crumpled into our pockets;

As we write,

We can watch one another’s eyes flick

Subtly up towards the sun,

And feel our hearts 

Being handed a gift

By the raw veins of another,

And within creases of the wrapping,

We are given all the words

A poem contains,

Plus every one that cannot fit;

We do this all silently,

Cupping the world in our palms,

Tilting it towards the sun

Along with our own subtle glances.