Landscapes

Some poems are meadows,
sweeps of sweet grassland;
contented, we graze
in frames of barbed wire.
Others are jungles,
teeming with danger;
passionate tangles
amaze and beguile.

Some poems are mountains,
heaps of grand magic;
stunning, their power
forbids us the peaks.
Others are brooklets,
void of intention;
trickles of giggles
meander, unchecked.

Some poems are oceans,
vast and uncharted;
reason eludes us
in mystery's depths.
Others are deserts,
lifeless and dismal;
parched in the wasteland,
we pray for relief.

In various shapes,
poems are created;
we gain perspective
through another's eye.
Still, I've never seen
the world in one poem
nor met a poet
who's mastered that form.