If life were but a show to thee
I’d make my life my poetry
And it would be the broken song
Of beggars hands, callused and strong.
It would trace the winds and clasp the grass
And count in clouds the years that pass.
My rhymes, surpass simplicity
To give voice to the chickadee,
With rhythm more than skipping tune
But golden fields with flowers strewn.
And with each vale and hill I’d cross
I’d give more findings for the loss.
Till lost myself amid the glory
Of elms and oaks, bearing their story.
O! But if men could eat their words!
I’d feast, as though possessing herds
Of cattle, rolling in the field
Who, unbeknownst, make the yield
Of men who do not have the gift
Of words for every low and lift.
Well, then my kin would share my pride
And call me wildness’ lucky bride.
So I could dine on poetry
A house in trees and coves with thee.