Wednesday, November 12, 2008


Come in young poet!
Dust the snow off
Precious April, and
Hear from me about
Winter's call.

Summer has yet to appear on
Your horizon, while
I am set.

Sit by the fire with me,
For what it takes
Read not words but
Meaning take from
Nimble old hands.

Cut out your words and
Dry them in the furnace Sun;
If you'll feed me in old age,
Though toothless I will still
Eat your Poems.


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