Poem on Poetry

When I was young
I did not like poetry.
I was not a fan.

I found it tedious in its ponderousness,
self-important in its insistence on open ends,
coy and smirking.

Confusing clarity with honesty,
I accused it of duplicity.

As I age
the mystery of life,
of the impact of a daffodil,
or just my own brain,
make clear
that sharing the view seen through a glass dimly
is more honest
than marketing the crisp picture painted on its surface.