Nancy L. Meek

WAITING AT THE GATE

“Where have all the poets gone?”…
With the weather and the wind;
But, as seasons wait their dawn,
They will return again.

The dew drops on the grass
As the night weeps for the morn
And the mortals dare to ask,
“Where have all the poets gone?!”

To die a simple death
Would seem the easy way,
For all that would be left
Is words that went astray.

So, the poets lay in wait
With the roots of December
Until the tired loose the gate
For poetry to remember.