Genesis

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?