What do poets think about during the frustrating days

Of grid-lock traffic coming into Port of Spain or Manhattan,

Or during the long cold nights of February and March?

Do poets wait and long for the beautiful flowers of spring

As everybody else and the welcome melody of birds in April?

After the winter's wasteland wouldn't the lilacs of April

Shout for joy in the valleys as hope is born anew?

The ice thaws and the mighty glaciers retreat up the mountaintops,

In this phantasmal season of renaissance when the cymbals claps their hands,

The forested hills echo their delight as the whispering streams

Sparkle in the abundant sunlight of a new day.

Four seasons are given for one people of one earth;

Who can say with certainty what's the difference between the spear wielding

Fante warrior hunting his game in Africa's velvet sylvan woods,

And the tuxedo warrior armed with his smart phone on Wall Street?

Survival.Yes,they both in their unique space seek survival.

The gentle wind parts the curtain at the window bringing

The feeling of hope.But is hope for this world only a hallucinatory dream,

Or our transcendence just part of the daily conundrum of life?

Who,then holds the answers to all the poet's silent questions?-

The priest in the white cassock or the well dressed politician

Harvard trained in the oratorical verbose of a modern day Cicero?

But then let's listen to the conductor's final gesture,and

The poet's last teleological  mythopoesis,the finale!