A Short Ode to Poetry

If a poem is like a wheelbarrow

That must overcome a mountain

Of indifference (first of the poet’s

very own making and then

of the rest of the world’s)

Then who among us is fit to say

When a metaphor is said and done

That indifference may not

Be completely warranted
Since a mountain may be moved
Or transplanted given repeated transit
Of that very same wheelbarrow
Filled with stones and dirt  

Today I felt the urge to write this brief ode to poetry.  I guess you could say it's a poem written in the form of a metaphor.  I'd like to dedicate it to my dad (and Grandpa Pete and Samuel Beckett to name but a few of my fathers, consanguineous or otherwise) on Father's Day 2016, in the spirit that has brought us to where we presently stand, wheelbarrow in hand.  Those of you who are interested in such things may want to read this earlier poem where I first tried to explain my love for the wheelbarrow -- as something more than just a handy metaphor - it's quite literally a most useful device.  And it keeps picking up new meaning - like so many stones in the bed of the barrow -- as I trundle on my way.