Nose Hairs
A young man bravely stands before the assembled poets
to admit his fear of the coming bloom of nose hairs,
and other indiscretions his body will soon foist upon
his flatulent flesh with the coming of age.
I say to that young man, be at peace, there are worse things
than having the hair on your head grow backwards
‘til it sprouts, luxuriant, from nostrils and earlobes.
There is being young, and not yet knowing
what a great teacher is this vessel, mortality:
How she pricks the bubble of ego, deflates pomp,
screws compassion into all but the willfully blind,
washes it down with tears that flow
at the sight of a leaf on still water.
There is being cold and beautiful, which this young man
need never fear, for already he is engaged in
the telling of his soul.
There is not growing old, ah,
worst of all, the burying of a smooth-skinned corpse
before it has a chance to sprout wings,
symphonies, and children, to grow into great
hairy-nosed poets.