To walk through thorns and thistles
Into the House of Plenty
And crawl back later
With bushels of Hunger
To dwell all day long
On the bank of a river
Then die of thirst
In the evening hours
To wade through
A welter of words
Condemned to trite tales
And hackneyed idioms
To reap silence from thunder
Happy consonants from
The cacophony of un-uttered proverbs
The serenity of sinless syllables
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To curse the axe
And woo the wood
To chastise the miner
And defend the Mountain
The Past, most times,
Is the Future we often forget
There are countless rooms
In the House of Memory