Gwendolyn Brooks was a rare kind of poet — able to speak volumes, artfully, in common language. If we need poetry at all — and I, for one, do — this is the kind we need. We need poetry that reaches out; poetry that makes of itself an offering; poetry that fosters connection. This poem does that better than most.
Sit down. Inhale. Exhale.
The gun will wait. The lake will wait.
The tall gall in the small seductive vial
will wait will wait:
will wait a week: will wait through April.
You do not have to die this certain day.
Death will abide, will pamper your postponement.
I assure you death will wait. Death has
a lot of time. Death can
attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is
just down the street; is most obliging neighbor;
can meet you any moment.
You need not die today.
Stay here–through pout or pain or peskyness.
Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow.
Graves grow no green that you can use.
Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.