Where Do They Go, These Little Poems
They crumble like confetti,
These little poems I write,
One letter on each tiny scrap,
They blow into the night.
To tickle the toes of a passing star,
And burn with its out-crying,
Ashes to float in the atmosphere,
Over-heating there expiring.
And then they will like angel dust
Fly through space for a million years,
‘Til one day (for they are never gone)
A hand clutches a fist full and holds it dear.
It will rearrange those particles glowing,
In the shape of its futuristic soul,
For there will always be a working bard,
So long as lovers stroll.
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