The poems have stopped, a reverse crescendo
because the poet is no more.
The poet never was a poet, truly
except when he wanted to be.
No more, the scanty robes of the poet
because the stiff starched surplice was suffocating.
Better, the man thought, to write poems
than be a poet.
Devoid of form, structure, meter, and rhyme
because all you really need is a license.
One that no one, with an authority gives, and
no one with rightful indignation demands.
He comes back to the place that he once was
because the yellowing plants are gasping for water.
Pours water to save the green from being hay
yet the future fodder feels no freedom.
And, the pale green of today, asks of tomorrow
because their nature is one with the human languor.
Will you be back tomorrow, they ask of him
just like the man, for them, today means so much less.