Gifts For The Soul
E
Eric Cockrell
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a poet is only an ear,
and a naked pen...
becomes less,
when he has a name,
even less a title.
the best lay down
their pens and
pick up shovels,
turning the earth in
stillness, season by season.
open the windows
and doors to the heart,
and sweep out the trash.
leaving gifts for the soul,
the tiny droppings of birds,
that just took flight...
a small mound of ashes,
a tiny wisp of smoke!
the imprint of a kiss
on lips long grown cold!
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