This poet who could write
with voice of child, drawn
from eyes whose spark
had never dimmed
walked into traffic at 51
to meet a solid, metal fate,
but the words of the wonderchild
still live in the books on library shelves,
need only a reader's
glance to ignite,
and what I want to know is
why fate had to be so solid
as it barrelled its say
to lay him low?
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/randall-jarrell/
