Where are the poems I've yet to write
the ones in ether between the worlds?
look to the sky to find their source
in nature's grasp the words will show
I'll walk to woods to find the spark
the muse says seek there for the fount
it is not what you would expect
when you’re inspired by nature’s breadth.
The paths below the trees are broad
passage shorn by human kind
by cut of blade and stamp of feet
made to ease the travels there
though it seems the moment blinks
waiting for the men to leave
before the tracks are taken back
by the artists high over head.
The turn of seasons colors them
in brilliant colors or tame green
sometimes to strip them bare
of paint them with white stain
these banners shame mortal men
with variation none can replace
the crooked lines are God's madness
made fully sane in woodland glade.
These silent sentries hold their circles
embracing change pressed in the sky
by the sun that promotes growth
or pall of gloom when all is mute
the rings proclaim the pass of years
speaking of the boom and bust
through all these the tall survive
until their time when they die.
The stanzas written defy count
each moment fated to longhand's gap
once unfolded they retreat
replaced by vistas more complete
ten thousand books are just a start
to spaces needed to capture all
beneath the canopy of nature's church.
This was my vision on that path
now held tight in twilight's grasp
for sun had set while I mused
seeing sights beyond myself
I stand too mute in dim response
unable to echo just small part
meager crumbs compared to the feast
of these masters of tall repute.
These true poets writing life
humbled me in my reproach
retreating to the four walls
made full straight by man's hands
there I scribble on phantom skin
come from the masters of the glens
asking for some small spark
embers from the greatest fires.
2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20161122.