Poets now know everything not written
down on the page is going to disappear.

Evanescence shows us our words are
destined for extinction as are we.

Yet our poems persist. We cannot help
ourselves, even in this time. And still,

Mother Mountain may recede in the ether
without words, yet can She inhabit our souls?

The canyon in the plain may deepen beyond
our sight, yet would She receive our spirits?

The sun ray in the forest may vanish from our
eyes; however, might She live in our hearts?

The shine on the moon may evaporate, and
still we wonder if it’s gone to the other side?

The tender caresses of lovers may pass away,
hence the inevitably wind will blow them down.

The breadth and height of our dear redwoods may
disappear. Perchance, depth perhaps remains.

Waves of white horses may drown in the ocean
forever, rambling into the steely clouds.

The wind dancing seamless through Eucalyptus
trees ends with the dreamers’ sighs.

A widow’s moaning for her beloved’s touch might
set off frogs croaking as evening comes.

The twinkle in a father’s eye could drop through
curtains of Aurora Borealis through the stars.

The hearty herbs of a healer even wish to dissolve
the music of a mourning mother’s cries.

The artist’s blue and scarred brushes allow themselves
to dissipate in a newborn’s silky crown.

The poet’s compulsion yearns be free to liquefy,
to rise and join the planets in the skies.