A Poem By a Young and Wandering Poet

It’s cool and the dusk is young yet, The sun is taking its time to set beyond the mountain tops I try to enjoy my fourth legal beer in the backyard Also known as The Upper Room, Where I once enjoyed dozens of illegal beers Now I take my chances at writing words on blank paper. And reading some of Purdy’s brilliance, Only leaves me discouraged on this sobered day I lose myself, for a moment, in addling thoughts Then, I find myself Dancing through the impregnated mosquito’s Now I am unsettled in my abstract mood, Those isoleucine hungry bastards… I may have written my only masterpiece if it wasn't for them. Not yet, Not yet young poet, you’re but a child in this art. Where the wind composes the singing pine trees, Silent birds hide in the branches waiting for their turn To sing their song just before dawn, and try to feed On the unclad worms eating their way through the soil Beneath the garden soon to clad with sunshine Not yet little ones, I say out loud to them You’re but a small necessity in this masterpiece Unseen yet, The weather is slowly feeling cold and bitter I can see the leaves growing and blowing from birth to death I can hear the changing of the season whispering to them Nature is magically present in my awareness of it all It’s beauty, once again, leaves me dumbfounded What is it that I believe in? And why? Have I figured that out yet? Not yet young poet, you’re but a child in this art. 9:04 P.M. on June 27th 2013 In Palmer Lake, Colorado