Tall as colossal pillars, they stand
lest I need to rest my back
Though tired my feet, I plod along
treading softly on faded diary leaves.
When dusk arrives, they hold up lamps
breathing fresh life into my jaded pen.
Let me sweep the dead leaves again
to uncover more paths, they once trod upon.
My fire shrinks from the snowy kisses
as winter troops in, freezing my muse.
They rise from the foggy pages
coaxing dying embers to sparkle again.
Their sorrows often weep into my soul
dripping disconcerting truths into my perilously sandy dams.
Grateful for the gift they have bestowed, to see beyond –
to the immortal loveliness within mortal beings.
I trot contentedly behind their spirited horses,
their mastery tolerant of my tremulous inexperience.
They wrote with passion, framing forever
Time and her ephemeral follies.
The greatest poets had the simplest words
which still float with unblemished wings
to come flying in my hour of need
as shining muses and gentler guides.
Nudging my fledging, bumbling efforts,
their creative penumbra hovers over my shoulders.
Much closer than Gods ever could be,
exemplifying what I should eternally see.
Their susurrus whispers as fragrant
as a long-awaited petrichor in the thirsty plains.
The blank page is now an epiphany of creation
engraved forever with long shadows of indelible names.