My friend Glenn has a poet’s heart. We regularly meet to talk and he often ends our visits by reading a poem he has written or one he has found that speaks to him. I was not very interested in poetry until Glenn began sharing poems with me. Over time, however, I have grown not only to appreciate but to crave poetry. The wall behind my office desk is beginning to look like the walls of John Nash’s garage in the movie A Beautiful Mind. It is peppered with lines and verses, for I can hardly stand to part with poems that profoundly touch me. Billy Collins’s “On Turning Ten,” Anne Stevenson’s “The Minister,” Gerard Manley Hopkins’s “Spring and Fall: To a Young Child” reach down into places where mere prose cannot reach: places of exile, places that mark the path toward home.