The Love Of Poetry Poem by Natasa To

The Love of Poetry

I love the way a poem begins—
a single spark beneath the tongue,
then suddenly, a forest wakes,
its leaves of language dripping gold,
its branches heavy with the songs
the sleeping heart has always sung.

I love the ink—
that midnight river flowing from the pen,
black as ravens, bright as rain,
carrying secret constellations
from the chambers of the soul
onto the waiting page.

A word can be a window thrown
wide open after summer rain,
letting in the scent of roses,
wet earth, thunder on the hills—
or a candle trembling softly
in an abandoned room.

A poem remembers everything:
the blue hour before goodbye,
the warmth of someone's hand,
the taste of salt upon the lips,
the red leaves turning in October,
the moon caught trembling in a lake.

It gathers broken things—
old photographs, forgotten dreams,
the ashes of a vanished fire—
and with a breath of metaphor
turns them into silver birds
that rise again from the page.

Oh, how I love the language of poetry:
its rivers, storms, and hidden gardens,
its doors disguised as sentences,
its stars concealed inside a word.

For poetry is not merely something written—
it is the pulse beneath the silence,
the wildflower growing through the stone,
the echo that refuses to die.

And when the world becomes too heavy,
when daylight loses all its color,
I reach for a poem
the way a traveler reaches for a lantern—

and there, between two lines,
I find a little universe
still burning,
still beautiful,
still mine.