From jagged spaces, what voice emerges?

Today, the weather in-between winter and spring, sunny, cold, warm, cloudy, edged with contrasts. The ground moist yet quick to dry. Clothes drying in the wind, drenched by a sudden, insistent shower, soon nearly dry again.

A friend asked me yesterday; what is the poetry in the ugly, the polluted, the bludgeoning wars in the world?

He a psychologist, me an intuitive, running through words, listening to their trails, different terrains, crossroads, the hidden and dormant, tips of flowers, silted years.