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Tuesday, July 5, 2016


Where did it go, the first poem
before the keeping of things?
Did it just evaporate in a summer’s sun,
or incinerate in a winter’s fire?

Where did they go, those poems
created before the written word?
Were they, like dreams, soon forgotten,
fading in their fragility, simply fallen away?

How did they begin, the first poets,
walking side by side on a summer’s day,
or sitting alone, staring at the flames
in a cavern, free from cold?

What happened to those poets,
the beginners of the craft,
did they simply die alone, in reverent solitude,
a mere glimmer in a summer sky?

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