How The World Engraves Itself Upon Our Being

I do not know how one writes poetry or how bright stars shine only at night- Although there are theories to be found, in certain writings that say stars may be seen in the bottoms of the deepest wells during daytime- if one stares long enough, without blinking. I do not understand how the sea may be heard in a conch shell one has stolen from the bosom of the ocean, however I have seen children, listening patiently at the open end; And also, I do not understand how pearls may arise in some hidden place, simply from an irritation. They say the earth is round, not flat- though I have found only the flat parts, in all my wanderings. Still, I feel sure there is poetry enough left over in the world that stars and wells and seashells- And even the occasional irritant- can write their story in the sky, the sea, and in granite and oyster-shell, leaving it safe there so that our children's children, and even their children, after them can someday find and read again old tales, reborn.