sticks and stones

Try explaining that a poem is
        a picture
painted on air,
   that stories are more
            forgiving,
not prone to self-destruct
   from single sagging words.
             Those poems
                  so heavy and hard to craft
standing the test of time,
      the black and white image
    of a dust bowl mother
           looking off into            
  a cloud of dreams,
       or the ones like silver rivers
                against impossible black
                    wilderness,unforgettable
          and then are
   Those poems scribbled on napkins
                                    scraps of paper
                flying away or left laying in coffee grounds
                                  and orange peels,
                      gone like passports from
                                                            countries that
no longer exist.
               everything so delicate and un-catch-able.
                            They are not wise answers, like
                   well worn stories,
                                                      these pieces of  words,
caught like silk on blades of grass,
              or staring back at us stuck in time,
             they seem to ask us,
"isn't truth just another name for beauty?
                      are we
                          not
                                           worthy?"