They say that it has faded,
that poetry is dead
but I, product of trees
and earth, do not believe it.
They say that on nights
when the air is clear (and moonlight
seems to stretch forever
making the shadows tingle with excitement)
the loose chattering of leaves
is an illusion
and the scent of dewy grass
is nothing more than a euology
to the poetry that once grew here.
They say that the clouds are pallbearers,
that the trees are priests,
that roses are grave-diggers, folding
their little hands until the last prayer is done
and then, bowing their heads
as they lean into their work,
they will lay the broken verses to rest.
They tell us lies, rooting in the dirt,
but they are burying empty caskets.
the wind, the water, the trees, the night,
they tell the biggest lies of all:
gusts, and waves, and leaves, and darkness
hold dances of lyrical light
enveloped by their love of song,
and one never heard a song so glorious.
and though some say that all is lost,
that poetry has exhaled for the last time,
I exist to testify to the truth;
that as long as eyes open and close,
as long as lips part and breasts heave
and hair dances on the tongue of the wind;
as long as a woman can still catch a man's eye
and steal a man's breath,
as long as there is the echo
of a whispered love, a dream;
They will tell you that it has faded,
that poetry is dead,
but I, child of rivers, of
shadowed glass and moonlight,
I do not believe them.
