Ode to an Ode Oh, Dearest Ode with clunky name, we use you. No matter our choices from pesky gnat to Grecian Urn, you do not block or mock our pure or snarky impulses to please. Why wait for funerals to laud? Extol odes upon the living, lift the truths and tiny lies with form and purpose to ease a subject’s desolate days. You gave Neruda and Lorca a box to hold their love of Whitman. Wrapped words shaped into sweet, sweaty bits of soil, skin, and sky. On and on you share yourself. Ancient as kindness you are, old as papyrus, yet alive, young and pleased with yourself. Mary Strong Jackson