I remember poetry
Like it used to be,
Written by a hand
Any child could understand.
Words that don’t play
But mean what they say.
What there is about
Reflects the eye without.
The inner eye doth see
Locked in memory
The ancient images
On all the pages.
Buried in the light of day
The bards are not afraid to play
But still the sweetest melody
Comes from out the oldest tree
And the root that drinks its fill
Holds the earth together still.