"Peace is not an absence of war; it is a virtue, a state of mind, a disposition for benevolence, confidence, justice. - Benedict Spinoza."
From The Lit Window
I am saying that whatever Frost is talking about
he is also talking about something else--the place
where at any moment we might find ourselves
choosing among many things who we are.
Janet looks out the window. I remember the first time
her eyes opened to my showing, the pulse
when the words became poetry--delighted seeing
through pure shock. She smiles now
the smile friends share amid the crowded blunders
they also share. Craig looks at her then at me,
frowning, certain more has occurred
than he finds reason to believe.
I read another poem, throwing gentle hints that work
and don’t work like so many brilliant flies,
cast in the mist happening between cottonwoods
at the river’s edge in a quiet, transient dawn.
At the back of the room the principal is keeping track
of how often I pause and whether faces look up or down.
The truth is such an absolute code I cannot help him,
knowing all his data can never break it.