The Grave Of A Poem

Today, I have visited the grave

Of a poem, a poem that was written

And relished, on the lips of tongues

And held to the heart, and recited

In candlelit caves, fragrant with lemon

And mist, and sipped verse-by-verse

With cups of tea, and crunched with biscuits

A poem that was found

On the shoulders of shooting stars

Buckled into the belt of Orion

And set sails in paper boats

A poem that was written in musty barracks

Tucked into hand-stitched pockets, on bus-tickets

A poem that was thought over

A poem that was discussed and deliberated

With the moon

I tarried a while, bowed in reverence –

And read the name of the poem

With crinkled eyes, a name that trembles

Upon the grey stone, in the gentle breeze

A legacy trampled under the earth’s breast

I see sentences rolled into pebbles

Tossed onto the road, which curves

Into the twilit shades of the graveyard

And as my shoes step over these pebbles

I hear the sentences sigh

I touch the stanzas coated with soil

The soil on which grows the occasional sapling

The sapling with green leaves and pearly dew

In this dew, I see scrunched up rainbows

And touch them, with quivering fingers, I dare

To separate the colors that cling together

Tarrying a while, to realize

That this is the poetry within a poem

A poem that had just been laid

To rest