~The Last Poets~
They seek refuge
In the deep greenness
Of forest mind.
Where anything can be
And so it is,
For their kind.
No hidden meaning;
Only sunlight quietly
Screening
Thru leaf and limb
Into golden shafts
Of silent, angled wisdom.
Unwritten verse
Budding with promise,
Then warming gently
In the sun of imagination.
As the words gracefully
Fall onto paper,
The brilliant splendor
Of recognition
Blankets them
With soft gratitude.
They are the last poets,
Serenely watching
A hurried world
Thru glasses made
Of sunsets...
Nature's flag unfurled.
If you care to look,
They're not so hard to find.
Just look for the ones who,
Amidst complexity,
Can have picnics in their minds.
They'll be the ones writing
Verses on napkins
And listening to rain
On the leaves...
Following the wind
Thru the woods,
Wherever it weaves.
The last poets
Can be anywhere
And everywhere
All at the same time.
Even now their thoughts
Ripen like grapes,
And their pens
Are making wine.
MEHCopyright 12/98
