A poem's truth, when presently revealed Inside its lines where they had first congealed Will fill you with a youthful ardent joy— Like first unwrapping ribbons on a toy, Or spring, when fragrant warmths of mulchy earth Stew flowers cocking back their heads in mirth As coldly chirping birds ring out from high; The sun's a milky lake, and falling nigh— A snake weaves wetly through the tired leaves, And mandrakes bob their fruit in labored heaves; The Lily of the Valley drips its bells, Their choirs bow and shake—the breeze, it swells. But reason says this moment passes quick, And anything done well is such a trick. There's only what the evening will allow; Eventually we take the final bow. So celebrate the now, that's fine, but how? Unpluck some of the finest cellared wine And serve with caviar all ballsy brine? Adroitly wreath the door in eglantine? Well no, I'm after something more sublime: A poem from the onset of my prime, Its secret woven in a metered rhyme, Presented here on each and every line. Just sample this: melodious and fine, You'll sing it by design, fat bells will chime; There'll ring a chorus, echoing in time, Proclaiming that this soul’s alive, divine. Michael Stutz is the author of Circuits of the Wind, the story of the net generation. Working as a novelist, correspondent and itinerant poet-photographer, his writing has appeared in many publications online and off, including the New York Times, Rolling Stone, The Age, The Daily Caller and Wired. Follow him on Twitter at @michaelstutz.