
There is an old trunk room
on the playwright’s estate
where I’m typing these lines
just for you
I’ve wandered the grounds
ambled through the old barn
read my fill in the library, quietly
crammed ceiling to floor
with dusty old tomes
dying to speak
I’ve prayed at a tombstone
beneath an old walnut tree
marking the spot on a hill
where he buried his heart
along with his dog
a very long time ago
I’ve watched a lone hawk
circling slow overhead
a gracefully hypnotic skydance
while lizards sunbathe
and rattlesnakes laze
and the touch of the poet remains