by Carol Casey
I told the young man that poetry could save the world. He looked at me with tired, cynical eyes, upper lip curling, ready to ridicule. Yet there was a wistfulness, a child’s dream of unfurling green upon green in the small light that flickered in his dilating pupils when I said “a sense of the sacred is antidote for greed, the ravenous need for more upon more.” A slight lift of eyebrow then he went still, face, mind, breath, heart, for a part of a moment before it all crumbled into shrugging off crazy old women who talk about poetry saving the world.
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