Today I bring a poem that's new to me from a poet who I've admired for a long-time. In fact, depending upon the day and which poem of hers I've read most recently, I might consider her my all-time favorite poet. I'm speaking of Naomi Shihab Nye. Here's one I came across while trolling around Poets.org:
"The Man Whose Voice Has Been Taken From His Throat"
by Naomi Shihab Nye
remains all supple hands and gesture skin of language fusing its finest seam in fluent light with a raised finger dance of lips each sentence complete he speaks to the shadow of leaves strung tissue paper snipped into delicate flags
Read the conclusion here. Don't you just wish you could make language do the things that Naomi Shihab Nye does? I mean, I speak the same language...why can't I do what she does? Instead of wasting time contemplating that question, I'll spend this Sunday being thankful for Ms. Nye and all the poets out there who continually amaze me.